


mud and pollen

by softdadironman



Series: sit next to me [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (bruce's past mentioned), (mentioned) - Freeform, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Childish Peter Parker, Dead May Parker (Spider-Man), Depression, Domestic Avengers, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Family doesn't end in blood, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Kinda, Mood Swings, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter is a Little Shit, Protective Avengers, Sassy Peter, Sick Character, Sick Peter Parker, Suicidal Tendencies, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Superfamily, Team as Family, Teen Angst, Touch-Starved, Whump, peter is mourning in this fic but he isnt really depressed, wanted to tag anyways just in case y'all sensitive to that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-04-08 10:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19105234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softdadironman/pseuds/softdadironman
Summary: If Peter's an idiot for not telling anyone he's feeling a little under the weather (an understatement of the century), the Avengers must be pretty damn stupid for not realizing that Peter's spiraling mood is more than some "teen angst."Peter thinks superheroes don't get sick. Tony is oblivious.





	1. hallucinating - elohim

**Author's Note:**

> lots of ned + mj in this chapter, oof,,,, i promise more tony content next chappie!

Rolling over in his bed at three a.m., Peter was aware of two things: a robotic voice nagging him and a painful burn in his throat. 

 

“Memelord69,” Friday said, using Peter’s specially requested name (which never failed to make him laugh, except now his sore throat wouldn’t allow him to), “you are running a fever of 101.2 degrees. Would you like me to wake Boss?” 

 

Peter waved his hand frantically. “N..No,” he rasped, coughing weakly. He reached over to his bedside table and picked a three day old coke bottle and sipped it. Despite the burn, he managed to add a “thank you.” Peter’s nose scrunched up at the awful, flat taste. He swung his feet over the bed, but as soon as he attempted to stand on his own two feet, he toppled over. 

 

He staggered to his feet and made his way towards the kitchen. While waiting for the Keurig to preheat, he let his eyes fluttered shut as he rested his head against the fridge. 

 

“Excuse me,” a voice said, and Peter slowly turned his head around to see a shocked looking Bucky said. “You’re blocking the beer.” Peter stepped to the side and let Bucky pull out a can. 

 

Bucky popped open the can and sipped slowly while watching Peter sway simply from the movement of stepping to the side. Peter’s eyes shut again, despite his Keurig finishing its preheat. 

 

_ “I’m not tired, Buck,” Steve had whined, an actual whine, when Bucky had forcibly pushed him over on the bed. “I’m not even tired!”  _

 

_ “Go to sleep. You can get your ass kicked some more tomorrow,” Bucky replied, tucking him into the blanket.  _

 

_ “Tomorrow’s a Saturday.” A pout. “I have to--” A coughing fit.  _

 

_ Bucky frowned and pulled out the first aid kit. He rummaged through it, but they had ran out of medicine forever ago. They can barely afford food as it is, much less medicine. “Hang in there, Stevie. You’ll be okay.”  _

 

_ “I am okay,” he said, face red. He coughed again.  _

 

_ “Bed.” Bucky threw the rest of the covers over his face before climbing in next to him. The lanky, small boy whined again but settled upon turning on his side and giving in.  _

 

“What are you doing up?” Bucky asked. Peter flinched, opening his eyes again.

 

He weakly rubbed at his eyes and let out a yawn. “Thirsty,” he said, clearing his throat. 

 

Bucky looked to him to the sleepytime green tea and the melatonin supplements on the counter. “Right,” he said. “It’s ready, by the way.” 

 

“Huh?” Peter stuck to the cabinet to reach up for a coffee cup. His fingers had just brushed against the cup when he stumbled again. Thankfully, Bucky was there to put a steady hand against his back. 

 

Bucky waited for him to spazz out like he typically does. Peter’s still getting used to hanging around them all, Bucky especially. “Hey, doofus, sit down.” 

 

Peter was too out of it to reply. “Huh?” Bucky rolled his eyes and picked up the kid. 

 

That seemed to wake up Peter because he did spazz out then. “Sergeant Barnes,” he squeaked as he was thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, “What’re you doin’?” 

 

Bucky put in the filter and started to brew the tea. He grabbed the melatonin (the modified one, one specifically made by Bruce and Tony for Peter) and poured some drops into the “who needs a superhero when you have a dad” mug Peter was using. “I’m on patrol.” 

 

“Ha ha,” Peter said, coughing. Bucky grabbed the finished mug, adjusted Peter, and headed towards his bedroom.Bucky slid Peter off of his shoulder so he could fall on the bed with an “oof.” He handed the warm mug to Peter’s shaky hands. “Thanks,” he beamed, bringing the mug to his lips so he could drink.

 

“Nightmare?” Peter did a spit take. “Relax.” Bucky wiped some spilled tea off of his chin. “Besides, me too.” 

 

“Can’t sleep,” Peter rasped. “Don’t tell May?” 

 

Bucky’s heart froze. “Peter…” 

 

“Please? She’ll come home for me,” he begged. 

 

“I won’t,” Bucky promised, chest tight. 

 

Peter smiled. “Thanks.” 

 

“Just… drink your tea.” Peter did so, slowly sipping the tea. Bucky sat with him the entire time. When the cup was empty, he took it from Peter to set down on the counter. He gently pushed him down on the bed and tucked a blanket over him. 

 

“I’m not tired,” he mumbled. 

 

“You’re just like him,” Bucky sighed quietly. 

 

“Huh…?” Peter asked, tilting his head to the side in his drugged state. 

 

“Nothing. Go to bed.” 

 

“Night night, Uncle Ben.”

 

He shut the door without looking back. 

 

Usually, Peter wakes up a bunch in the night. He can’t always remember the dreams, but he mouths words on his tongue, inaudible, but he’s still mouthing what he was screaming in his dreams. It’s rare he remembers them, but he carries the word on his tongue like it’s dead weight. Not this time, though, Peter sleeps straight through the night. 

 

When he wakes up in the morning, there’s no words on his tongue. “My Name Is” by Eminem blasts from his phone. Out of reflex of shutting off phone alarms before it can wake up exhausted-surrogate-mothers-home-from-a-night-shift, he smashes his phone into the wall. The song cuts off, even though his Aunt isn’t around to get woken up. 

 

He rolls over in his bed. Rays of sunlight reflect off his bed. He soaks up the sun before he realizes it’s a monday. 

 

He lunges for his phone to check the time. Nevermind that Tony had a clock installed in his room, that just takes too much work. No, instead, Peter dolphin dives off his bed to grab his phone. 

 

At first, he was worried he overslept his patrol. Seeing as it was 7:42, he’d be lucky if he made it to school on time. 

 

“Fri…?” He starts, but his voice is lost. He coughs harshly in order to clear his throat. “Why didn’t you wake me?” 

 

“Sergeant Barnes told me to put your room on do not disturb,” she replied. 

 

“Why does everyone in this tower forget I have school? ‘Peter, you can’t be Spider-Man 24/7. Peter, you should study. Peter, join a sports team.’ Hypocrites, Friday.” Peter huffs as he tugs his jeans up. He throws his shoes and socks into his backpack, slips on his Spider-Man mask and webshooters, and he swings across the city. 

 

Thanks to his webs, he reaches Midtown High in record time. He changes in a back alley a few feet away. He exchanges his mask and shooters for his socks, but he’s disappointed to find he packed one knee length and one no show. No time to fuss, he pulls them over his feet and sprints to the school. 

 

He runs straight into first block shoeless. 

 

The bell rings, and the morning announcements are already going. Peter slowly pads his way over to his seat next to Ned during the moment of silence. After the anthem, Peter goes limp in his seat. 

 

“Good morning, class,” Peter’s biology teacher greets. A murmur of exhausted ‘mornings’ sound. “I’m not going to lie: I’m super hungover, and I don’t feel like teaching. Use Chapter Nine in the booklet to do this twenty page packet.” He throws the stack on a goody two shoe’s desk for her to pass them out. 

 

“Dude,” Ned hisses, nudging Peter. “You look like death. With a capital D.” 

 

“Why, what am I wearing?” Peter asked, freezing. He looked down at his outfit before relaxing. “Don’t scare me like that.” 

 

“I mean the big eyebags you’re sporting,” Ned says. “Thanks,” he says, grabbing the two packets from the girl. “I do the first ten, you do second?” Peter hummed. “Or, I do all, and you take a nap?” 

 

“Ned, I love you.” A lazy smile spreads across his face. “But no. I get second half.” 

 

Peter zipped open his backpack only to find it was completely empty, except for a lone shoe, his mask, his webshooters, some napkins, a chapstick, and some gum. Ned, without being told, hands over a mechanical pencil (his good one, too). Peter smiles sheepishly before flipping through his packet. 

 

“Mr. Parker, I could give a flying fuck about the dress code,” the teacher says, giving a careful eye to a girl in a crop top in the front row, “but could you please refrain from walking in here barefoot?” 

 

“Yes, sir,” Peter says, looking at his feet under the desk. “Uh, oh.” 

 

“You forget socks, too?” Ned asked. 

 

“No, I  _ had  _ a sock. Where’d it go?” Peter frowned at his sockless foot. 

 

“I have extra gym socks in my locker,” Ned offers. “I’ll lend them to you on one condition: put your shoe on, okay?” 

 

Peter coughs as he shoves his toes into his tennis shoe. He gives up halfway. “I don’t need socks.” 

 

“Peter, what’s wrong with you? Are you sick?” 

 

Peter looks Ned in the eye, coughs without covering his mouth, and lets the saliva pool in the corner of his mouth. “No.” 

 

“Peter!” Ned cried, cringing. He ran and got a tissue before wiping at his face. “You’re sick.” 

 

“I am not, actually,” Peter says. 

 

“I thought you were just tired, but… I think you caught something.” 

 

Peter scoffed, “I’m Spider-Man, remember? I have a healing factor, or something like that. I don’t even get sick.” 

 

“Peter!” Ned put a finger over his lips and tried to hush him. 

 

“Go ahead, Ned. Shoot me.” 

 

“I’m taking you to the nurse,” Ned announced, pulling on Peter. Peter went limp on contact, and Ned struggled to keep him from hitting the ground. “Okay, okay, stop doing the ragdoll thing.” Peter stops with a grin and returns to his seat. Ned pulls his phone out. “What’re your symptoms?” 

 

“Don’t google it,” he said, resting his chin on his open palm. He leans into the desk, closing his eyes to rest. Just for a moment. “It’s just going to tell you I have stage four colon cancer.” 

 

“Well, do you?” 

 

“I don’t have cancer. It’s probably, like, a cold or something.” 

 

“Or something? You could have the Zika virus  _ or something.  _ You’re an idiot, dude. You’re probably carrying the zombie virus and spreading it everywhere.”

 

“You know what, Ned? Your brain  _ is  _ looking pretty tasty.” Peter opened his eyes. “Wait, you don’t have one, do you?” He knocked his fist lightly against his skull. “Mhm, it’s empty. Nada. Nothing.” 

 

“You’re an asshole when you’re sick.” 

 

Peter grabbed his pencil and put it to the paper, even though his brain couldn’t focus on the letters in front of him. “First of all, not sick. Second of all, always an asshole. Third of all, I’m not wrong, though.” 

 

“You have negative two brain cells,” Ned retorted. 

 

Peter starts to laugh, but he’s cut off with a harsh coughing fit. The coughs get louder, drawing attention from his classmates. When the fit stops, he’s gasping for breath. “Ned?” 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“I think I’m sick.” 

 

The bell rings, and Peter doesn’t move. “Symptoms?” Ned asked, pulling up google on his phone. 

 

Peter huffs but gives in. “Hurts to talk. A cough. Uh, body ache. Everywhere. I’m nauseous, too, just a little. Headache.” 

 

“You’re dying,” Ned says simply. 

 

“Seems about right.” 

 

“I think you have the flu, Pete. You should really go home,” he says, pushing his stuff into his backpack. He slides it over his shoulder and goes to help Peter out of the desk. 

 

“I’m a superhero. An Avenger,” he said, even though technically he’s part-time. “Heroes don’t get the flu.” 

 

The walk to second block, gym, is wobbly. Peter manages to run into three people along the way before tripping down the stairs into the locker room. Ned changes in the bathroom stall, and when he steps outside, Peter is sprawled on the floor of the bathroom. 

 

“Pete?” he calls out into the empty room. “You okay?” 

 

Peter’s only response is a snore. “Parker, Leeds!” the gym coach barked from the doorway, not bothering to look inside. “Get out here!” 

 

Ned frowned, kneeling down to wake up Peter. “I’m sorry, bro,” he said, gently shaking him. “We gotta go.” 

 

“Huh?” Peter asked, yawning. He sat up. “Where am I?” 

 

“Second block. It’s dodgeball, day.” 

 

“Aw, man. I hate dodgeball day.” Peter sniffs loudly. “Alright, well, let’s go.” Peter staggers to his feet and makes his way towards the door. 

 

“Peter, socks,” Ned cried, pushing him down on a bench. 

 

Peter had been attempting to go out on the gym floor with one sock, a left converse on his right foot, and his toes halfway into the right converse. Not to mention his shirt was on backwards. 

 

Ned did the best he could - the shirt being a lost cause. They make their way into the gym, where the game has already started. They sneak into the corner, trying their best to avoid the softballs flying past them. 

 

“Did you watch that meme compilation I sent you last night?” Ned asked. 

 

“Suicidal pigeon gets me everytime,” Peter said. He smiled weakly, but his Spidey Sense started blaring. “Ned, watch out!” He jumped in front of him to take a softball to the square of his back. He falls to the floor in defeat. Ned cradles him. “This is it for me. Go on without me.” 

 

“Peter--” Ned starts, but Peter is already rolling over onto his stomach. He’s out like a light. “And he’s asleep. He’s actually asleep.” 

 

“Parker, really?” The gym coach puts her hands on her hips. “I know you kids aren’t the most active, but really? Sleeping in class?” 

 

“Coach D, Peter’s really sick,” he replied. 

 

“You kids are sick all the time. If you want to run laps instead of playing an easy game of dogeball, be my guest.” 

 

“I’ll run a mile if you let Petet sleep for the rest of class.” Ned says it so desparately that the coach stops. 

 

“That serious, huh?” She puts her hands down. “No laps, Leeds. Why don’t you take Parker into the locker room and get him some ice?” 

 

“Thanks, Coach!” he chirps. 

 

Ned doesn’t want to wake him up again, now that he’s really settled in on the floor. He can’t lift him up, though. He may be on the light side (heh, Star Wars joke), but he’s still a bit too heavy for Ned to carry across the gym. He almost asked the gym teacher for help, but she was already off to tear two jocks off of each other. 

 

“He’s drooling.” Ah, MJ, his savior. She kicks Peter in the side with her bulky adidas. “He’s dead.” 

 

“He’s heavy,” Ned corrected. “Can you help me move him?” Michelle leaned down and scooped him up bridal style without any difficulty in the world. She followed Ned into the boy’s locker room and didn’t pay any mind as they walked into the back corner. She dropped Peter gently down on a bench. “Thanks, MJ.” 

 

Peter stirred uncomfortably on the bench. An idea must’ve popped up in MJ’s head because she sprinted off all of a sudden and returned with a pillow and a blanket. She covers Peter with it and crosses her arms over her chest with satisfaction. “He get bit by another spider?” 

 

“Ha ha,” Ned says, rolling his eyes. “I think it’s the flu.” Michelle instantly steps away and moves to wash her hands in the sink. “He won’t go home, though.” 

 

“Why am I not surprised?” She turns off the faucet and dries her hands. “He really is an idiot.” 

 

“He heals pretty fast. He’ll probably be better by lunch time.” 

 

As second block neared its end, Peter most certainly did not get better. The dodgeball game ended, and the guys flooded inside to change, instantly stopping when they sat MJ huddled around Peter and Ned. She was yelled at, but she wasn’t even phased. She simply scooped up Peter, blanket clad and half-shoeless, and walked out the door. 

 

She sets Peter down on a bench in the lunchroom. Ned nudges him lightly. “Pete, wake up. You need to eat.” 

 

His eyes flutter open, but he doesn’t speak. He coughs weakly, and his eyes start to shut again. Ned and MJ exchange glances before rising out of the seat. This, at least, triggers a response out of Peter. “Where are you goin’?” 

 

“To get food,” they both reply. 

 

Michelle cups a hand to his face. “We’ll be right back.” Peter frowns, closing his eyes again. As promised, Ned and Michelle are back in a moment. They slid on both sides of him and sandwiched him in. “I got soup from the nurse.” She stirs the bowl of chicken noodle shapes and blows on a spoonful. 

 

Ned cracks open a Gatorade and holds it to Peter. He waits for Peter to grab it but instead he cocks his head to the side and latches on to the open bottle. Ned smiles a little as he tips it up very slowly for Peter to drink. After just a few sips, he coughs, and he sets down the bottle. 

 

Michelle settles upon spoonfeedind him, and it’s safe to say the tables around them are giving them really weird looks. None of them seem to care at all, though. She blows on each spoonful before carefully slipping the spoon in his mouth. 

 

Peter barely eats half of the soup. He lets out a heavy sigh, indicating he’s had enough. He leans to his left, head pushing against Ned’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he mumbled against his best friend. 

 

“Pete, you should really go home,” MJ says, cleaning up the table. 

 

“Day’s almost over…” Peter trailed off, gently squeezing the hem of her shirt as he dozed off on Ned’s shoulder. “I’ll make it.” 

 

The bell rings, and Peter resists the urge to whine. He sits up straight, wipes his face with his sleeve, blinks a few times, throws his feet over the bench. He stands. He falls. 

 

“Oh my god, Peter!” Ned yelped, trying to pick him back up. He’s out like a light. “Holy shit, is he dead?” 

 

“He passed out,” MJ said, picking him. A nearby table of jocks gaped as he carried him across the cafeteria. “What an idiot.”

 

MJ sets him down on a bench in the nurse’s office. Ned looks around for the nurse, but there’s no sign of her. MJ grabs a temporal thermometer and swips it over his forehead. “102.9,” she announced. Peter starts to stir awake, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He writhes on the bed. “Call his… Fuck, who do we call?” 

 

“I have Mr. Stark’s number in case of emergencies,” he said, pulling out his phone. “But this isn’t Spider-Man related…” 

 

“So?” She held a cool hand to his forehead. “It’s an emergency.” 

 

“I dunno… MJ, you call him.” He passed his phone over to MJ, who quickly dialed the number. The line picked up on the first ring. 

 

“I’m sorry; Tony Stark is in a meeting right now,” a girl answers. “Can I take a message?” 

 

MJ cups the phone. “It’s a damn receptionist,” she hissed. She moves her hand. “Hello, I need to speak to him right away.” 

 

“What news station are you with?” MJ hangs up then. She’s not going to get anywhere with her, she decides. 

 

Ned, stunned, gaped at Peter. “He gave me the receptionist number! For emergencies! Fuck you, Peter…” He clenched his knucles so hard they turned white. “What if you were really hurt? Like, now, for instance?” Peter didn’t reply. 

 

MJ patted him down and pulled a phone out of Peter’s backpack. She entered in the passcode, how she knew it was a mystery to Ned but he didn’t bother questioning it right now (he had more important things to worry about, like, his dying friend for instance). “I can’t make any sense of these.” Ned scoots next to Michelle to look at his contact list. “‘My favorite birdman’? ‘My least favorite birdman’?” 

 

“Oh, I think that’s Hawkeye and Falcon,” Ned deciphered. 

 

“Uh, ‘Star Spangled Ding Dong’?” she reads. 

 

“Captain America,” he replied. “He’s probably a safe bet.” 

 

A thud sounded from Peter writhing around. Awake now, he was reaching for his phone. “Don’t call Cap.” 

 

“Who do we call, Peter?” Michelle asked roughly. Peter shook his head. 

 

“Please.” He sounds so broken that she can’t help but give in. She pulls up a chair next to the bed, folds her arms to lay her head down. 

 

“Rest, Peter. I’ll wake you when the day’s over.” 

 

Ned explained what was going on to the nurse, and she seemed fine with the resting kid. He had a good reputation, after all, and the faculty was aware he’d came back to school almost right after losing his aunt. Pity took over her and she let the two stay with him for a couple minutes before shooing them back to class. 

 

_ “You don’t need to push yourself so hard.” Aunt May wrings out a rag before setting it on top of Peter’s forehead.  _

 

_ “You first,” Peter retorted, snorting.  _

 

_ Aunt May stilled, then. “Peter, I do what I have to to keep this home functional. You, however, are still a child. Maybe act like it?”  _

 

_ “And let you have all the fun? No way, Aunt May. We’re in this together.”  _

 

_ Aunt may smiled before pressing a kiss to his wet cheek. “What did I ever do to deserve such a sweet baby?”  _

 

_ “I’m 16.”  _

 

The moment the bell rang, MJ sprinted out of her last block, not caring who she bumped into. She fought the crowd until she ran into Ned in front of the nurse’s office. They exchanged glances before bursting in to find the nurse scribbling something down in a file. They peer past her into the empty room. “Where’s Peter?” Ned asked, breathless. 

 

The nurse looked over her shoulder. “He went home.” 

 

“Someone picked him up?” Michelle asked, hopeful. 

 

“No, he just left,” she replied. 

 

MJ and Ned exchanged glances again before running into the courtyard. Among the students filtering out of the building, none of them were Peter. 

 

“Who’re you calling?” Michelle asked as Ned held his phone up to his ear. 

 

“Karen,” Ned replies as the call goes through. “Hey, girl, can you put me in through Peter?” 

 

“Hello, Ned,” she greets coolly. “I’m sorry I can’t right now.” 

 

“And why not?” he asked. 

 

“He’s asleep.” 

 

“But…” Ned stopped. “He’s in the suit…” Karen only picked up when the suit was active. Meaning… “Karen, where is Peter?” 

 

“He’s waking up now. I’ll put you through.” A click. 

 

“Hey, Ned,” Peter said. “What’s up, homie?” 

 

“Peter, for the love of-- Go home!” Ned demanded. 

 

“Mhm, can’t. Avengers emergency.” 

 

“Peter--” 

 

“Gotta go, Ned. Thanks for the soup and all. I’ll send you my share of the homework later. Bye!” The line cut out. 

 

Ned slowly lowered his phone in defeat. “He’s a lost cause.” MJ knowingly nods. 

  
  


What Peter looked to as an ‘Avengers Emergency’ was really a quick text from his favorite Birdman, who was requesting for more milk. He was about to web-sling home, but he made a quick stop at the drugstore. 

 

Peter swung home, his eyes closing for short, sweet seconds. A few times he carelessly splatters against a window. For the third time (and thankfully last), he lands flat against the Avengers compound. Friday lowers the window for Peter to roll on through with milk in hand. 

 

“Thank you, Webs!” Clint cheered, accepting the milk from Peter. “You’re a little late.” 

 

Peter dropped his backpack to the ground with a thud. “You texted me three minutes ago.” He was really thankful he was wearing his mask at the moment because he was wearing the biggest pout ever. 

 

“I know.” Clint twisted open his root beer and poured more into the bowl. “I appreciate it, though.” Peter rolled his eyes and put the milk in the fridge. “How was school?” 

 

“It was fine.” 

 

Clint put a hand over his chest. “Bucky mentioned you were tired, but he didn’t say anything about you being an asshole.” 

 

“Really? I’m the asshole?” There was a sound of a door opening, but Peter didn’t pay it any mind. “Cause I’m not the one who made someone stop at the store for milk and then put fucking root beer in my lucky charms!” 

 

“Whoa, language,” Steve said. 

 

“Fuck you too!” Peter said, flipping him off. He stormed off to his bedroom, leaving the stunned two in his wake. 

 

Clint shrugged under Steve’s intense gaze. “Really? Root beer?”


	2. lilies - roland faunte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oof

Peter stumbles into the living room with a fuzzy blanket wrapped around him. Dinner was already being served, and Peter’s designated seat already had a plate in front of it. He trudged his feet up to the fridge, grabbed a gatorade, and sunk into his seat. 

 

Clint, across from him, sets down the two liter bottle of root beer on the table. He shifts it out of Peter’s sight. 

 

Tony, oblivious to the awkward staring between Clint and Peter, calls across the table, “How was school today, squirt?” 

 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped. Tony didn’t flinch, but his left eyebrow did raise up. He was used to Peter protesting against “kid,” and Steve’s fond “son.” However, Peter had never snapped at him like that before. 

 

“So… bad?” Tony guessed. 

 

Peter picked up his fork and poked at the meatloaf on his plate. Sam scooped some sweet peas and mashed potatoes on his plate. “Buck mentioned you had a rough night,” he said, “so I made your favorite.” 

 

“Thanks,” he said dryly, moving the food around on his plate. He stabbed his fork through the loaf, but he didn’t take a bite. He took a stab at the peas, but he cringed trying to swallow just a couple. 

 

Peter’s hand couldn’t stop shaking as he struggled to scoop the peas on the fork. Eventually, he gave up and dropped the fork with a clatter. He wrapped the blanket even tighter around himself and tucked his legs into his shirt. 

 

Peter took to the blue gatorade instead and sipped at it slowly. While Bruce was distracted telling Tony a story, he used his fork to scrape the contents of his plate onto Bruce’s. Bruce, completely sucked into some arguement with Tony, doesn’t even look to his plate as he stabs aimlessly for a piece of food. 

 

Peter stares down at the stray peas on his plate. “Thanks for dinner.” He said, pushing himself off of the chair. The moment his feet hit the ground, he stumbles forward. Before he can fall and hit the ground, a hand grabs his elbow to still him. Bucky, face laced with concern, lightly tugs on him so as to steady him. “Thanks, Sergeant Barnes.” 

 

“You really shouldn’t sit on ur knees like that,” Steve chastised, shaking his head. “You’re going to fall on your face.” 

 

“I’m going to bed,” he announced in a harsh tone. Peter spun on his heels so fast he got a wave of nausea. 

 

Sam looked down at his watch. “It’s… 6:30.” 

 

“It’s not even dark out,” Clint said between mouthfuls. 

 

“Leave him alone, he’s a growing boy,” Natasha said, flicking Clint in the forehead. 

 

“He barely slept yesterday,” Bucky added. 

 

Peter turned around to face the table. “Stop talking about me like I’m twelve! I’m sixteen now. Don’t call me ‘squirt’ or ‘kid’ or ‘son,’ and don’t comment on how much I sleep or eat. It’s none of your buisness!” 

 

Silence fell over the dinner table. Even Clint stopped chewing. His mouth hung open, despite him still having a mouthful of mashed potatoes. Peter flinched at the hurt looks staring back at him (and cringed at Clint’s table manners). 

 

He felt a tear begin to form, and he quickly stormed off before the others could see it. 

 

Peter shut the door behind him, locked it, and for good measure, barricaded it with his dresser. He shut off the lights, closed the curtains, and dolphin dived on his bed. He buried his face into his pillow. 

 

His head was pounding. Despite his constant shivering, his clothes stuck to him with an uncomfortable sweat. He was out of breath - he couldn’t breathe through his nose anymore, and now he was suffocating himself with his pillow. His chest hitched, him taking in deep inhales and slow exhales, but his heart would not stop beating against his rib cage. 

 

Another tear started to bead, but he wouldn’t allow it. He wiped furiously at his eyes and covered his mouth with both hands. 

 

His stomach burned, and he wanted so badly to cradle himself, but he didn’t dare uncover his mouth. He clamped down hard to keep the loud wails from escaping. 

 

His shoulders shook with him, but no sound came out. No tears rolled down his cheek. 

 

He shook, and he trembled. 

 

But he didn’t cry. 

 

After a while, Peter’s breathing stabilizes. He slowly sits up on his knees in the darkness of his bedroom. “Karen…?” If he thought his voice had been sore before, it got ten times worse. 

 

“Memelord69, your mask is to your right.” Peter has decent vision in the dark, but he doesn’t want to fumble around. It makes him dizzy enough sitting up. He mumbles a thanks before snatching his mask from his bed and slipping it on. 

 

“Hello, Peter,” Karen greets, and Peter doesn’t let go of the end of his mask. “Your temperature has gone up to 103.” 

 

“Karen, can you play my May folder for me?” The mask muffles his breathing so much that he feels like he’s choking. 

 

“Sure thing, Peter,” Karen says, sounding almost affectionate. “You have forty-six missed texts from ‘my boi in the chair’ and six missed calls from ‘the gang’ group chat. Would you like me to send a message back?” 

 

“I’ve worried them enough,” Peter says, flipping over on his side. “Lower the brightness, please.” 

 

“It’s at the lowest setting,” Karen says, and Peter huffs as a video of May opening her Christmas present from Peter plays. Peter watches her tear up at the homemade card, and he couldn’t take it anymore. 

 

“Do you have any videos… of her hugging me?” He whispers the last part. 

 

A video plays, one recorded from Peter’s mask. He’s swinging out of a burning building and he sets a woman down on her feet. “Thank you, Spider-Man!” The woman, Aunt May, engulfs him in a tight hug. 

 

Civilians hug him all the time, which he always returns. This time, he holds on tight, though, and he almost presses a kiss to her cheek. “All in a day’s work, ma’am!” He cringed at his squeaky, fifteen year old voice. 

 

Some photos pop up, some with Uncle Ben. Two show his mom, dad, uncle, and aunt. Man, back in the good old days where Peter had an actual family. 

 

Peter knew he wasn’t normal. Most teenagers probably turned off the lights in their bedroom and locked the door while they were masturbating or some shit, but here Peter was, in the dark, watching clips of any and all hugs he’d received from his aunt. 

 

This was really pathetic. 

 

“Mr. Stark is at your door.” Peter couldn’t hear the knock over the muffling mask. 

 

“Tell him I’m watching porn,” he says, throwing the blanket over him. Karen goes silent to deliver the message. “Is he still there?” 

 

“No,” she replies. 

 

“Good,” he says, but he feels anything but. “Karen, I don’t feel good. I’m cold.” 

 

“Your temperature is rising.” 

 

Peter climbs off his bed and finds his suit in the dark. He steps into it and lays flat on the floor. “Heater.” 

 

“I can not. Your vitals--” 

 

“Please? Just, for a little?” he begs, hoping the warmth may feel like a hug. 

 

“Would you like me to call Mr. Stark?” she says instead. 

 

“No, I don’t. I want this cold to go away.” 

 

“You test positive for flu, and I may be detecting an ear infection,” Karen says. “I suggest medical assistance.” 

 

“Karen, have Friday wake me when the others go to sleep.” He slips off his mask and falls asleep under the covers. 

 

When he wakes up an hour later, it’s not Friday or Karen. A rising bile in his throat sends him lunging for the bathroom. He barely makes it in time. 

 

He fights it, but nothing can stop the green bile from spilling out of his mouth. He gags, choking on the revolting taste. His shaking hands grip the sides of the toilet bowl until it hurts to hold on. Peter pants and holds himself. 

 

“You need medical assistance,” Karen says. Peter looks around, confused. 

 

“Friday, where’d you go?” 

 

“I installed Karen into your room, so you can speak with her. Would you like me to uninstall?” 

 

“No,” he said desparately. “What drugstores are open?” 

 

“Tamiflu is unable to be bought by minors,” Karen said. 

 

“Is there any in the compound?” 

 

“In the medical wing,” Friday replies. 

 

“Is anyone in said medical wing?” Peter asked. 

 

“Dr. Banner is working on a project.” 

 

Peter thumped his head against the toilet seat. “Is he going to be done anytime soon?” 

 

Neither of the AIs know how to answer that one. Peter flushes the toilet, but it takes him a moment to gather the strength to stand up and wash his hands. 

 

Peter slips his mask on and shoots a web to the airvent. “Directions,” he whispered, and blue lights light his way to the medbay. He crawls through the vents. 

 

“Warning. You are approaching Birdman 1,” Karen announced. 

 

“What?” Peter asked, but he stops short. He reaches an intersection, and a few feet to his left, Clint is snoring with his hand inside of a Pringles cup. He shoots a web at the chip and pops it into his mouth before continuing through the vents. 

 

Peter rips off the airvent window and drops into the medbay. 

 

It wasn’t unusual to see Tony working past midnight to finish a project. It was common occurence he never slept through the night, and occasionally he’d stay up with Bruce on a project. 

 

What was rare was Bruce staying up alone. 

 

Peter was on a mission, but he couldn’t help his curiosity get the best of him. 

 

Bruce’s station was cluttered with long-forgotten half-empty coffee cups. He sat, slumped in his chair, furiously scribbling down in his notebook. Bruce let out a loud groan, ripping out the paper, crumbling it up, and tossing it aimlessly behind him. 

 

The paper wad landed next to his feet. Upon unfolding, he found a WikiHow article titled “how to tell if someone is suicidal.” Peter deadpanned, especially finding Bruce’s maniac scribbling in the margins. Next to some of the “signs,” Bruce had scribbled his name. 

 

Peter must’ve gasped or made some noise, or maybe his Parker luck was just really feeling strong today, or maybe Bruce just happened to look that direction, because Bruce all of a sudden was staring at a not-so-stealthy Spider-Man. “Oh, you’re awake,” he said, for the lack of literally anything better to say. 

 

“‘Emotional outbursts’?” Peter read. “‘Changes in personality’? ‘Life crisis’? ‘Sleep problems’?” 

 

“Peter--” 

 

“I’m fine, Dr. Banner,” he said. 

 

A pale Bruce anxiously pulled down his sweater sleeves. His mouth hung open; it was obvious he was trying to speak, but he couldn’t find the words. 

 

“Warning: Mr. Stark is--” 

 

“You’re scaring us, Pete.” 

 

“Approaching,” Karen finished, a little too late. 

 

He rolled his eyes and mumbled a thanks to her. “Who the hell do you think you are? Taking notes on me like I’m an experiment?” 

 

“We’re… We’re scientists, Peter,” Bruce spoke. “It’s how we…” 

 

“Oh, fuck off,” Peter sighed, throat burning. His vision started to blur. 

 

“You’re not sleeping well,” Bruce says. 

 

Tony… Tony isn’t speaking. After his first comment, he fell completely silent. He stares at Peter’s masked face. 

 

“I know how it feels, Pete, to… feel like…” 

 

Peter softened. “I know, Dr. Banner. You don’t have to say.” 

 

“I want you to know, though,” he said, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose, “that pushing us away is the worst possible thing you can be doing right now. Pete, you’re on a team full of war veterans with PTSD. We understand, more than anyone else could.” 

 

“I’m not suicidal,” Peter says finally. 

 

_ I’ve never seen Tony Stark sick and crying for his dead parents to hold him.  _

 

“You didn’t come to me after the funeral,” Tony said, clearing his throat. “You didn’t speak to anyone, and that was fine. Everyone copes in their own way.” 

 

He saunters up to Peter, staring down at him through tired eyes. Peter wanted to shrink back. He was getting some awful deja vu from the ferry incident. 

 

Oh, man. Things used to be so much more simple back then. 

 

“But this,” Tony snarled, giving a harsh poke to Peter’s chest, “is  _ not  _ coping. Be mad, if you have to. Be pissed as hell! Fuck shit up; do whatever you have to to be okay. But, don’t… Don’t be stupid, Peter. Don’t misdirect your anger.” 

 

“Okay.” 

 

“Okay?” Bruce asked. “Seriously?” 

 

Tony wasn’t impressed. Peter wanted to rip off his mask to stare him down, but he knew he had red, puffy eyes and a runny nose. It’d give him away in a heartbeat. “It’s late, Peter. Get some rest.” 

 

_ This is the time where you hug me. I mean, you yell at me and give me this speech - the least you could do is give me a goodnight hug? _

 

Tony looks at Bruce, nods, then walks out of the lab. 

 

_ Seriously? Fuck you, dude.  _

 

“Goodnight, Pete,” Bruce said, slipping off his coat. “Get some rest, okay?” He walks off. 

 

_ Et tu, Brutus?  _

 

Peter absorbed the sweet silence of the lab. Funny, he was trying so hard to avoid them, but after seeing them leave, he started shaking even more. 

 

“Where are the meds, Kare-Bear?” Peter slurred, waddling over to the medicine cabinent. 

 

“Tamiflu is located in the middle row drawer,” Friday replied instead. 

 

“Come to papa,” Peter hissed, snatching the pills. 

 

“Peter, the amoxicillin may help with the nausea,” Karen offers. 

 

Peter scanned the drawer for the other bottle. “Oh, you sexy baby,” he hummed. “How many I take?” 

 

“One tablet--” Peter poured a handful into his hand. 

 

“One tablet,” Friday emphasized. 

 

“My metabolism is whack,” Peter shrugged. “Four?” 

 

“Peter--” Peter pinched his nose and swallowed them dry. 

 

Peter returned to his room via the vent (after carefully sneaking past Clint again) and webshooted his backpack to him. He pulled out his packet and the answers Ned had sent him. He scrolled past the countless “PETER” texts Ned had spammed him with. 

 

He starts copying down the answers, which normally would go against his morals, but he’s having a hard time and can barely focus on anything for more than a minute. 

 

By the time he reaches the last page, his chest is aching. He rips off he suit he hadn’t bothered to take off. 

 

“Peter, your temperature is rising.” 

 

“It’s hot in here,” Peter whined. “Turn up the AC?” He put a hand over his stomach. “That nausea medicine isn’t working.” 

 

“You need to purge,” Karen pleaded. 

 

“Not yet,” he said, gritting his teeth. He fell to the floor grasping his stomach. “It’s gotta kick in.” 

 

“You’re dying, Peter,” Friday said. “Would you like me to call Boss?” Peter was so glad he fixed the “baby monitor protocol,” or he would’ve been found out a long time ago. 

 

“A bit longer,” he said. A coughing fit took over, and he closed his eyes to attempt to dissociate. 

 

When they opened, he barely made out the red liquid coating the palm of his hand. “You need to pure immediately.” 

 

“A bit longer, and you’ll be in a coma,” Karen added. “It’s in your best interest to call Mr. Stark.” 

 

“I’ll purge,” he huffs, giving in. He doesn’t make it to the bathroom. He pushes his face into the trash can by his bed and heaves. 

 

Once he started, he couldn’t stop. Peter had spent almost the entire day trying to keep himself from vomiting. He puked up everything in his stomach, the pills and the few bites of soup and meatloaf he had today. 

 

“That’s gross,” he said, cringing at the trash can. “Ew.” 

 

“The nearest hospital is two point seven miles away from here,” Friday said. “I could call an ambulance.” 

 

“I’m Spider-Man; I don’t  _ do  _ hospitals. Secret identity? Hello?” He scoffed. 

 

The sharp pain in his chest went away, and even some of the nausea faded. “I’m taking another one.” 

 

“One tablet--” 

 

“I know.” Peter took one and layed back on his bed. He wouldn’t be making that mistake again. 

 

Peter does start feeling better half an hour later. He loves it, loves being able to stand up without swaying. He’s enjoying the feeling of walking until a wave hits him, and he collapses to the floor. 

 

“Fuck Spider metabolism, honestly.” 

 

Take too many, he passes out. Take too little, it wears off in a matter of minutes. If he risks doubling up, he may wake up dead, and no one has the authority to call Tony to tell him he’s slipping into a coma. Maybe fixing that protocol was a bad idea. 

 

Too late now, he supposes. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i pinky promise there is going to be tony + peter fluff, I PROMISE I JUST LOVE THE SLOW BURN 
> 
> ((next chapter will be last and have all the good stuff)))
> 
> also its my headcanon karen and friday are best pals so im not sorry about that
> 
> um yall are all really sweet and i promise im gonna upload actual irondad content NEXT CHAPTER I PROMISE OK BYE I LOVE U GUYS NGHHH


	3. elastic heart - sia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take a turn for the worse.

Peter doesn’t come into school the next day. He manages to shoot Ned and MJ a text to let them know, yes, he is alive. They send him countless “get well soon” texts and promises to visit him soon. Peter sends back a selfie before trying to fall asleep again. 

 

Honestly, he doesn’t do much except puke. The more he lays down, the less likely he is to puke. 

 

He’s kind of glad at this point that he’s not hungry because as much as he enjoys stealth missions, there’s no possible way he could succsessfuly sneak something out of the kitchen without anyone finding out he skipped school. 

 

Peter takes a water bottle out from his nightstand. It’s old, but he doesn’t care. He throws his blanket over his head and catches up on his Netflix. 

 

Peter’s chest tightens. He only wishes it could be from the close call with the overdose, but instead, the sharp pains come after everytime he’s reminded of his isolation. 

 

It’s embarassing, really, but he starts binging “My Little Pony” to get that “wholesome” feeling he’s craving. That only seems to frustrate him more, however. 

 

He’s hot and then cold. Nothing can stay constant with him. He knows he’s burning up, but he can’t help but wrap his blanket around him for surrogate affection. 

 

“I don’t mean to be horny on main, but I really want someone to h*g me,” he texts his group chat. 

 

Peter’s never taken a rest day before, and with how much people hype them up, he figured it wouldn’t be so boring. Yet, here he was… 

 

“Sending cuddles,” Ned texted back along with a gif of a cat and dog snuggling up next together. 

 

Peter wanted to melt. “why tf r u awake???” MJ texts. 

 

Peter huffs then snaps a picture of him with his blanket pulled over his face. 

 

He meant it as a joke, but he does fall asleep after that. 

  
  


At 4:25, Peter Parker shoots up in his bed. His hands fumble to cover his mouth. He lunges forward to cradle his stomach. 

 

The pressure in his ears won’t fade, and the medicine isn’t working at all. Peter’s stomach growls, but he knows if he eats anything, he’ll just puke it up. His nose is stopped up, and his throat is so sore it hurts to mouth breathe. 

 

Everything hurts. 

 

Peter starts praying at this point. He doesn’t really know to who, but he does. He just wants it to stop. 

 

At 5:48, he’s called down to dinner. 

 

Peter scrubs at his face with a towel and pulls over a dry wick nike tee and gym shorts. He stumbles into the dining room where everyone is seated. 

 

He pulls out his chair slowly, too distracted by the distance between his chair and Bucky’s and Sam’s.

 

It’s a couple of inches. Peter is only two inches away from Bucky. Bucky, sensing the staring, looks over at Peter, whose head is already turning in the opposite direction. 

 

And there’s Tony, just, using his hands for unimportant things. What he could be doing is give Peter a hug, but, no, he’s difficult. 

 

Sam’s walking by and doesn’t notice the dazed Peter standing by his chair. He brushes against his shoulder, and Peter is breaking. “Whoops,” Sam said, looking down at the blueberry that rolled off his plate. “Whoa, kid, you’re shaking. You okay?” Peter cradled his shoulder. “You that scared of me?” 

 

“No,” Peter whined, lightly shoving him. 

 

_ I’m shivering because everything hurts, and I’m dying.  _

 

“Are you cold, Peter?” Natasha asks. 

 

Peter can’t think of anything better to say so he nods. 

 

A hoodie is thrown his way, and he graciously accepts it. The last thing he wants to do is put it on his body. But the thought is still nice. 

 

Peter’s head pounded, and he finally sunk into his seat. The others had begin eating, talking with one another. Peter was left alone, probably due to his outbursts from yesterday. 

 

_ They’re mad at me,  _ Peter thinks, clenching his fist.  _ I did yell at them. I’m so stupid; I shouldn’t have yelled. I should apologize.  _

 

“Um,” Peter says, clearing his throat. Everyone stops and looks at him. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry. For yesterday.” 

 

Peter didn’t recognize the look on Tony’s face. “Of course, son,” Steve spoke in his place. “You were tired.” 

 

Tired doesn’t even begin to cover half of it but okay. 

 

Peter picks up his fork. 

 

He knows he should eat. He knows he’s long due for something good for him. 

 

It just had to be fucking wheatcakes, didn’t it? 

 

Wheatcakes? The food that May always made for him when he was sad? 

 

Really. Wheatcakes. 

 

Whatever, really. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. He’s fine. 

 

_ Fuck.  _

 

Funny now he can sit at a dinner table full of people and feel so damn alone. Tony’s laughing, telling some story to Bruce. Clint and Natasha are playing footsies and having some secret spy conversation. Bucky’s initiating a food fight with Steve and Sam. 

 

He feels as if he’s not even there. He’s hurting so bad, and he’s not even with them. Like he’s sitting right there, but he’s not. He’s somewhere else, off in a different dimension. 

 

Peter hadn’t cried at the funeral. Peter hadn’t cried when he got home. Peter didn’t cry the days after. 

 

Oh, how he wanted to. 

 

Everything’s built up, and now he’s alone. He’s so, so alone, and it’s terrifying. He lost Richard, Mary, Ben, May. And, now, he’s losing the Avengers and they’re sitting right in front of him. 

 

_ “He’s kinda cute, Peter,” May giggled one Christmas as she hung up a stocking on the fireplace. Peter threw a piece of popcorn at her.  _

 

_ “That’s my boss, Aunt May,” Peter said, cringing. “Gross.”  _

 

_ May shrugged. “He’s good looking; that’s all I’m saying.” She moves to sit back on the couch, and he gives her a rough shove. “What? Are you mad I invited him over for Christmas dinner?”  _

 

_ “You… you didn’t.” May sips her tea. “Aunt May, it’s Christmas, I’m sick, and you should be nice to me.”  _

 

_ “That’s why I made your favorite: wheatcakes.”  _

 

Fucking wheatcakes. 

 

It’s just that time of year. 

 

“We’re not doing a party this year?” Clint exclaimed. “What?” 

 

Peter looked up suddenly. “I wasn’t planning on a Christmas party. If you want to host one, go ahead, but I have an expo that weekend.” 

 

This is starting to be too hilarious. Stuff just keeps getting better, doesn’t it? He’s gonna have his first Christmas alone. 

 

May was going to do a real tree this year. They’d finally saved up enough to afford one. 

 

Peter was never a big fan of the holiday. What he was a big fan of, was making houses, decorating the tree, wrapping presents with May. 

 

Where did that leave him now? 

 

“Wow, okay, be that way,” Clint snapped. “I’ll ask that hot girl at the coffee shop if she wants to go on a date with me.” 

 

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You still haven’t asked Laura on a date yet?” 

 

“How do you know her name?” Clint whisper-shouted. “How do you know the things you know?” He gripped her shoulders. 

 

“I’ll be here,” Natasha said, disregarding Clint. 

 

“I was thinking of a trip,” Steve suggested. “Buck and I used to go night swimming on Christmas. Kind of a tradition.” 

 

“Sam, you in?” Bucky asked. 

 

He shook his head. “Nah, I’m volunteering at the local shelter. It’s a rough night.” 

 

“I changed my mind. I’m going to ask this cute girl at the coffee shop--” 

 

“Nat, she’s mine!” Clint hissed. 

 

“Some guy’s gonna ask her before you do if you don’t hurry,” Natasha said. “If you’re not gonna, then I’m gonna.” 

 

“You… you like men.” Natasha sipped her drink and raised an eyebrow. “Right?” 

 

The table fell silent. Natasha laughed. “I think volunteering sounds nice. Your team got room for another helper?” 

 

“Always,” Sam said, smiling. “Actually, we’re in a need of more youths, so Peter, if you’re interested… Peter?” 

 

Sam stopped sawing his pancake. 

 

Sam’s a pretty amazing chef, so amazing that his food completely distracts people from looking around at the other residents at the dinner table. 

 

If he was a bad chef, maybe someone would’ve noticed Peter was crying sooner. 

 

Warm, salty tears were streaming down his face, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. He covered his mouth and tried to clamp down, but he couldn’t help the small squeaks escaping. “I’m… so,” he coughed and took in a deep inhale, “Sorry…!” His shoulders shook as he buried his face into his hands. 

 

“Pete, what’s wrong?” Bucky asked. 

 

“The… the wheatcakes,” he cried, sniffling. “They’re just so good.” 

 

“Peter.” Peter didn’t look up from his hands. “Damn it, kid, look at me.” Peter dared to look up to Tony Stark, inches away from his face. “Talk to us, kid.” 

 

“I’m not… not a kid,” he said, shaking. “Not a kid, Mr. Stark.” Peter choked out a laugh. “I sure am acting like one, aren’t I? I’m sorry.” 

 

“Peter, what’s wrong?” Steve asked this time. “Is everything at school alright?” 

 

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” Peter lied. He tried to force a smile, but his muscles were working against him. “Honestly, I’m--... I’m fine.” 

 

Peter’s vision started to blur. He reached out to balance himself, and Tony grabbed on to him tightly. Peter fell against him, let him hold him with outstretched arms. 

 

“I’m okay, Mr. Stark. I’m okay,” he consoles him, but the tears don’t stop falling. 

 

“Peter, talk to me.” His voice was softer. “What’s going through that big brain of yours, huh?” 

 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter said, latching on tightly to his shirt. “I don’t…” He saw spots. 

 

“His face is red,” Bucky noted. Tony reached out and pressed a cold hand against his forehead. 

 

“What the shit?” he hissed, feeling different spots. Peter was panting. “Friday, temperature.” 

 

“103.5,” she reported. “Thank you for asking, Boss.” 

 

Tony’s face went white. His suit formed around him. “Mr. Stark, no!” 

 

“Uh-huh, you don’t get to say that right now. Not with a near 104 degree fever.” 

 

“No hospital,” Peter mumbled weakly, sniffling. “Please.” 

 

“Bruce?” Tony tried. 

 

“I’m not that type of doctor,” Bruce said. “There’s only so much I can do.” 

 

“Can’t go to a hospital,” Peter repeated. “Can’t. I can’t.” 

 

“Technically, I’m retired,” a new, deep voice spoke. “But I owe you one, Nat.” Stepping out of an orange portal, Doctor Strange drops a briefcase on the table. “I heard you’re not feeling well, Spider-Man.” 

 

“Understatement of the century,” Tony growls. “A 103.5 degree fever.” 

 

“It’s just flu…” Peter trailed off. 

 

“Start an ice bath.  _ Now, _ ” Stephen barked. Bucky, protective mode kicking in, jumped off his chair and ran towards Peter’s room. “Tony, can you--?” 

 

Tony was already lifting Peter up out of the chair. If Peter wasn’t in immense pain, he might’ve enjoyed it a bit more. 

 

As much as he hated being carried like a child, he never wanted to let go. 

 

Tony carried Peter into the bathroom where Bucky was fixing the ice bath. “Start a timer for fifteen minutes,” Stephen ordered. “Tony, I need you to set him down.” 

 

Tony bent over, but Peter really didn’t want to let go. “Please,” he begged, still crying softly. 

 

“I’m right here,” he said, words feeling heavy on his tongue. Tony drops Peter as gently as he could into the frigid icebath. 

 

As soon as he hit the water, Peter was fighting to get up. Tony moved to hold him down, but he wasn’t strong enough. “Hold him down, Tony,” Stephen ordered calmly as he peeked into the hallway where everyone else was standing around. “Dr. Banner, I need you to develop an antiobiotic as quick as you can.” 

 

Bruce nodded firmly before scampering off. 

 

“I need help in here!” Tony called. Steve, Sam, Clint, and Nat ran into the overly crowded bathroom. Bucky and Tony were struggling to hold down a thrashing Peter. “Stay still, kiddo. It’ll be over soon.”

 

“I’m so cold,” he whimpered, twisting under their hold. “It hurts.” 

 

Bucky, who has given ice baths many times before, doesn’t hesitate to clamp down on his feet.

 

Tony, however, lets go the second Peter starts crying louder. “Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop.” 

 

“It’s okay, Peter,” Steve hums, making his way to hold him down. “You’re doing so good. Hang in there.” 

 

“Ten minutes,” Stephen said. 

 

Peter bucks up. “I can’t—!” 

 

“Tony, hold him down,” Bucky says, but Tony is out of it. “Tony!” 

 

“What?” He rips his eyes off of Peter. He fumes, but the anger fades at Peter’s soft whimpering. “Oh, kid.” 

 

“I’m not—” Peter struggled, still reaching over the tub. “Not a kid.” 

 

“He needs to stay still,” Stephen barked. 

 

“Peter,” Tony says softly as he bucks up in the bath. “Look at me. Hey, hey, I’m right here. Look at me.” 

 

Peter’s exhausted brown eyes, red all around, were dusted over with something dark, something Tony knew too well. Peter locked eye contact with him, still sniffling. “Mr. Stark?” 

 

“I know it’s cold,” he says, “but you have to stay still for me. Okay?” 

 

Peter stopped thrashing. “How much longer?” he whined. 

 

“Five more minutes,” Doctor Strange said. “You’re doing so well.” 

 

Clint cringed. “Comforting isn’t your thing, Doc,” he said, scrunching up his nose. 

 

“I-I… I am?” 

 

Shocked, Clint turned to Natasha and mouthed, “What the hell?” She shrugged in response. 

 

“Yeah, you are,” he confirmed. “Just a little bit longer. Can you do that for me?” 

 

“I’ve never heard him talk like that,” Sam whispered. “Kinda freaking me out.” 

 

Peter nodded. “Y-Yeah, I-I think so.” His teeth were chattering from the cold. “I can do it.” Peter closed his eyes and gripped sides of the bathtub. “Hey, Mr. Stark?” 

 

“Yeah, kid? I’m here. What do you need? I can get you—” 

 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter said, rolling his head to rest against the wall. “I think I’m sick.” 

 

“Peter,” Tony said with a half smile. “Why didn’t you… why didn’t you tell me?” 

 

“Can we, uh,” Peter paused, clenching his fist. “talk about this later?” 

 

“Tony, you have to distract him,” the Doctor snapped. “Peter, have you taken anything?” 

 

“Oh, yeah,” he said, giving a harsh cough. “I purged them up yesterday. They’re out of my system.” 

 

Doctor Strange went still. “You overdosed?” 

 

“I…” Peter tilted his head back. His hand let go of the side of the bath tub. 

 

“Peter, I’m gonna need you to open your eyes for me,” Doctor Strange said, pulling out a light. “Peter?” 

 

“Friday, temperature,” Bucky ordered. 

 

“103.7.” 

 

“It’s going up? It’s going up? How is it—” Tony put a hand over his chest. 

 

“I purged them,” Peter rasped. “They’re…” 

 

“What hurts right now, Peter?” Doctor Strange asked, moving some of the ice cubes out of the way. He slipped a pair of gloves on and pressed his hand against his stomach. 

 

Peter let out a large whine. “Did you  _ have  _ to do that?” 

 

“What hurts, Pete?” Steve asked gently. 

 

“My feelings, for one,” he said, wheezing as he laughed. “Oh, and my stomach since the Witch Doctor is a  _ sadist. _ ” 

 

“What about right here?” he said, moving his hand. He pressed down, and Peter punched him in the face. 

 

“Oh my god-- I’m so sorry,” Peter apologized, screaming. “Shit, I’m sorry for hitting you, but please don’t do that again.” 

 

“I can’t do this here,” the Doctor gaped. “I need an OR.” 

 

“For what?” Tony asked. “More ice? Do we need more ice?” 

 

“I’m going to have to pump his stomach.” 

 

Peter snorted. “I  _ purged,  _ Doc. Scout’s Honor. I’m all good.” 

 

“I’d believe that if you weren’t still crying,” Bucky said, sitting on the edge of the tub. 

 

“I’m not crying,” Peter mumbled, wiping at his face. “I think… I think my allergies are acting up.”

 

Bucky managed a soft smile. 

 

“What are you making that face for, Stephen?” Tony asked, noticing his drawn expression. “What happened?” 

 

“Okay, I need everyone out,” he said. “All of you.” 

 

“What?” Tony asked, standing up. Peter’s hand shot out to reach for him, but he was already gone. Peter reels after him, reaching over the side of the tub. “What’re you going to do?” 

 

“You need to get out of here,” he said, stepping closer to Peter, but Tony blocked his way. “Move.” Tony didn’t flinch. “Do you want him to live or not?” 

 

Tony caught his gaze and didn’t let it go. Sam, Clint, and Nat moved into the hallway. Bucky gave a last pat to his cheek to try and comfort the suffering teenager. “It’ll be okay, Peter. We’ll be back,” he said, standing up. 

 

“Not you too,” he cried out. “Don’t go!” 

 

Steve grabbed Tony’s wrist. “Tony, we’ve got to go.” 

 

“I…” 

 

“Tony,” Steve said. “Trust him. Trust me.” 

 

Tony gave one last look to Peter before stepping out of the room. “Take care of my kid, or I’ll kill you.” 

 

He shut the door behind him. 

 

“Let me out,” Peter cried. Stephen put a hand to his forehead. “I want… I want Mr. Stark!” 

 

“Trust me, kid. You don’t want him in here for this.” Doctor Strange reached for the supplies he had set out. “I’m going to need you to be still for me.” 

 

“Doc…?” Peter asked. “What are you… gonna do to me?” 

 

“Close your eyes, Peter.” 

 

Everything hurt. 

 

Peter’s had some close calls before. With his line of work, near death experiences happen every other week. 

 

Somehow, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to them. 

 

He’s pretty sure he’s gonna die here, but he closes his eyes anyways. 

 

It’s hard not to feel anything other than the pain and the cold. Everything aches: his heart, his chest, his head, his bones. It hurts. 

 

He reaches out for Tony, but he’s not there. He feels hands on him, over his stomach, but he knows it’s not him. It’s not who he wants it to be. 

 

_ “Hang in there, Peter.”  _

 

Peter smiles at the fleeting memories. 

 

The hands press down, and Peter can’t take it anymore. 

 

***

 

“One, two, three…” Doctor Strange resorted to counting quietly. Peter Parker’s body, wrapped awkwardly over the edge of the bathtub. His feet still hung over the ice, but his back was pressed against the tile. “Friday, keep me updated on vitals.” 

 

“103.5 and dropping.” 

 

He didn’t bother smiling. This could all turn south very soon. He continued the chest compressions. Peter, as still as a corpse, didn’t move. “Come on. Wake up. Come on, Spider-Man.” 

 

He beat down hard on his chest. After a third hit, Peter’s eyes and mouth opened. He sucked in a deep breath. “Breathe for me,” he said. Peter tried, focusing on breathing slower. “There you go. Come on.” 

 

“I’m… tired,” Peter panted, coughing. “My stomach hurts.” 

 

“Almost done, Peter, just don’t pass out and convulse on me again,” he said, helping Peter turn on his side. 

 

“What… happened?” 

 

“You choked on your vomit,” he said. “Hey, stay with me.” 

 

“I want ‘im,” he mumbled weakly. The Sorcerer Supreme moved a basket in front of his face. 

 

“Just this one last thing, I promise,” he said, using the voice he typically reserved for the young patients in his hospital. 

 

Peter gripped the sides of the bucket. “I feel sick.” 

 

A hand pressed against his back. “You didn’t purge fast enough, Peter,” he said solemnly. “I did what I could with the magic to get it out of your bloodstream, but…” 

 

“But what?” he asked. 

 

“It’s not going to be pretty. I need you to stay stable.” He applied a black gel to his lips and the inside of his mouth. “Whatever you do, don’t pass out because I’m doing this on a bathroom floor with no nurses.” 

 

“What’s gonna happen?” he slurred, fear apparent in his eyes. Peter had never seen him with such a pitiful look before. Before the Doctor can even begin a reply, Peter pukes. 

 

And he doesn’t stop. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a really questionable search history bc of this fic... the stuff i do to try and provide medical accuracy is astounding ***fake magic, too ((theres no instructions on the internet on how to heal a kid with a supermetabolism so dont @ me))) 
> 
> i really wanna say thank u for all the support u guys are giving me!! i hope yall know i re-read those comments 24/7 bc they mean THE WORLD to me. 
> 
> hope u guys liked! byeeee


	4. thistle and weeds - mumford and sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be a ONE SHOT

“Friday, status,” Tony demands, pacing around the living room. His fingers are tapping a hundred miles per minute. 

 

“Heartrate has increased, but his temperature is down to 103.2.” 

 

Tony tried to relax, he really did. Steve and the others did whatever they could to console him, but there was only so much everyone could say. 

 

“This is my fault. I should’ve noticed…” 

 

“There was nothing you could do. It’s in their hands now,” Steve said. 

 

“Bullshit,” Tony said. “I have to… Bruce. Oh my god, Bruce!” With that, he was out of the room and bursting into the lab. 

 

Bucky heavily sighed. “That’ll keep him busy.” Steve dropped next to him on the couch, and Bucky rolled his head over to rest on his shoulder. “Tony’s this close to a mental breakdown.” He holds his fingers up for emphasis. 

 

“Can you blame him?” 

 

“No.” 

 

The living room was deathly quiet. Sam was praying quietly while Natasha held Clint’s hand. 

 

Tony had been the first to meet Peter. When he recruited him for Civil War, Peter was only fifteen and carrying the weight of his deceased uncle. 

 

He was always carrying around a weight like that for as far as Tony had known him. Peter chalks it up to bad luck. 

 

Tony’s drawn to people like that. Maybe he has a sense for it or something, but after recruiting him, he felt obligated to keep a watch on him. Constantly. 

 

He tried his best to be there when he could. Peter reminded him of his youngerself. The him before he got all messed up. He wanted Peter to get to live the life he never had but always wanted, and he was willing to do anything to keep him happy. 

 

Tony was there when May was first diagnosed. He was one of the first people she had called. He’d known about the cancer before Peter did. 

 

After she was gone, Peter got back up, as he always does. Nothing can ever keep him down for too long. 

 

That’s when Steve meets him, really meets him. Tony had called all the residents of the compound to inform them of the new resident. He hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. 

 

Tony kept him seperated from the others for a while. 

 

Even though he’d met him before as Captain America, it was different now. His aunt was gone, and it was all too personal. Steve had no intentions of getting caught up in his personal life. 

 

But he did. And it didn’t take long for the others to follow. 

 

Natasha fell in love with the poor kid. She’s always had a soft spot for children. 

 

As for Clint? He had a thing for damaged folk. They all kind of did. Sam, too, especially. 

 

Sam and Bucky, though, they were never too fond of him. Found him annoying, really, in a pesky bug kind of way. He had an annoying way of making people like him. Well, at least he was fun to bully. 

 

Bruce had already loved Spider-Man as Hulk before he met him as Bruce. He’s friends with the both of them. 

 

Peter had a special way of wrapping them all around his little finger. 

 

So they sit. And they wallow. They wait for good news while beating themselves up for not doing anything until it was too late. 

 

Despite what Steve said to Tony, he had a hard time believing himself. 

 

The silence was loud enough. No one dared to speak. 

  
  


The walls were soundproofed - a perk that comes with the compound. You had privacy. 

 

All the soundproofing in the world couldn’t keep Peter’s screaming from leaking into the living room. 

 

The air was full of silence one moment and Peter’s bloodcurdling screech the next. 

 

Clint turned off his hearing aids and stopped at that. The others couldn’t rid of the sound so easily. Some didn’t even bother to cover their ears. Instead, they just sat there and couldn’t help but think of how much pain he’s in. 

 

They’re just thankful Tony wouldn’t be able to hear him up in the lab with Bruce. 

  
  


“Come on, don’t pass out. Stay with me,” Doctor Strange chanted as he helped Peter sit up. “You’re done, Peter. You did so well.” 

 

Peter’s screaming had stopped. He was no longer crying. 

 

“Are you with me?” he asked, snapping his fingers. 

 

“Mr. Stark,” he mumbled. 

 

“Right away, kid,” he said, standing up to go. 

 

“Please, I don’t wanna be alone!” he cried. 

 

“I’m getting Stark for you,” he promised. “Okay?” 

 

Peter shook his head frantically. 

 

“We need to move you,” he said, moving his hands under his back and head. Peter wiggles away from the contact. “Friday, what’s the status on that medicine?” 

 

“They’re doing finishing touches,” she replied. 

 

“They?” 

 

“Boss and Dr. Banner, sir.” 

 

Doctor Strange looked down at the writhing boy. “Page an Avenger.” 

 

“I want Mr. Stark,” Peter said, head pressing against the bathroom tile. His hands clutches around his stomach as he rolled it to the side in case he needed to puke again. 

 

“He’s getting your medicine,” he replied as soothingly as he could. He was never a good comforter, and he’s not doing much for the teen. 

 

Thankfully, the door bursts open and Sam and Bucky are there. Peter, newfound energy coursing through him, struggles to sit up and lunge for them. 

 

“No, no, sit back down,” Sam said, running to his side. 

 

Bucky kneeled down to his side and replaced Doctor Strange’s hands. He hoisted the child up into his arms bridal style. 

 

“You smell like shit,” Bucky says, carrying him into his bedroom. He gently sets him down on his king sized bed but doesn’t bother putting him under the covers. “Friday, vitals?” 

 

“102.9,” she reported. 

 

“Would you look at that?” Peter mumbles, trying to sit up on his bed. “I’m all better. You can get out now.” 

 

“You are not out of the woods yet,” Stephen said. “Not until they finish your medicine.” Sam gently set a hand against Peter’s chest and slowly set him down on the bed. “Make sure he’s resting. I’m going to go check on the others.” 

 

Bucky and Sam sat on both sides of Peter to make sure he didn’t go anywhere. “Get off,” he growled, moving to push them off but couldn’t do much in his weakened state. 

 

They were both right there. If Peter was a smart boy, he would be jumping into their laps. But he’s an idiot, so he doesn’t. He tries and pushes them away from him. 

 

“You’re a stubborn little bitch,” Bucky says, throwing a pillow at his face. 

 

“Buck, you’re going to  _ kill  _ him,” Steve exclaims for the doorway. He rushes over with a cup in his hands. 

 

“Ah, yes, his greatest weakness: pillows,” he remarks, holding the pillow against his face. Steve fumes and rips the pillow off of him to reveal a smiling Peter. 

 

“Sergeant Barnes, stop,” Peter demanded, but he was giggling. Bucky grinned, and Peter reached aimlessly for a pillow. Sam slid one his way, and Peter snatched it and brought it against the side of his head. “Get off of me.” Peter barely hits him, but Bucky flies over in defeat anyways. Peter laughs again but a cough takes over him. 

 

“This does  _ not  _ look like resting,” Doctor Strange growled. Steve, wearing a similar expression, shook his head in disbelief. “Sit him up.” 

 

Sam guided Peter into a sitting position. Bruce walked in a second later with a pill bottle in hand. He sat on the bed and dropped a large pill into his hand. Peter couldn’t help but lean away from it. He reached out and grabbed it, pinching it between his fingers. He scrunched his nose up in disgust. “It’s huge,” he said, examining it. It was one of those white, chalky pills that tasted like shit. Of course, you weren’t supposed to taste it, but Peter always has had trouble with swallowing them. That matched with his sore throat? Not a good deal. “That’s okay.” He moved to hand it back to Bruce. 

 

“Peter, you have to take it to get better,” Bruce reasoned. 

 

Bucky shifted then to move off the bed, and Peter reeled after him. Without thinking, he reached for him off the bed, caught the hem of his shirt, and gracefully fell to the ground. Bucky started to fall back. Steve moved instantly to catch Peter, who had a death grip on Bucky’s shirt. As soon as Bucky hit the ground, Peter went with him. 

 

Trying to process what just happened, Peter blinked. “Sorry, Sergeant Barnes,” he apologized, mortified. Peter sat on the square of his chest, pinning him to the ground. 

 

_ What the hell, Peter? First, you start crying like a baby during dinner and now this? Real classy,  _ he thinks to himself. “I’m so sorry,” he apologizes again, scrambling to get off of him. 

 

Bucky grins ear to ear. Peter staggers to his feet. He holds out his metal hand to give Peter some assistance, which he accepts hesitantly. He keeps his eyes glued to the ground. 

 

_ Did I really just do that?  _ Peter’s about to apologize again, but that metal hand is already tugging again, and before he knows it, Peter is thrown up on his hip. “Sergeant Barnes?” 

 

“I’m not going anywhere, Pete,” he said, placing a hand against his back to steady him. He grabs the pills from Bruce and walks the boy into the kitchen. 

 

“Put me down,” Peter says, heart not into it. 

 

Bucky is cold to the touch, but he can’t help but press himself into him. His face burns red, and he knows he looks ridiculous, but everything hurts so, so bad. He can’t help it. He grabs a cool drink from the fridge and brings him back into the bedroom. “As soon as you take this, I’ll set you down.” Bucky sits Peter on his lap and cuts the pill in half. He opens the Gatorade bottle and hands it to Peter. Peter pours the drink into his mouth, drops the pill in, then swallows. He coughs afterwards, body shaking and he finds refuge in Bucky’s chest. Bucky gently rubs a circle into his back. He grabs the second half. He drops the pill in his mouth, but he can’t swallow. His nose is too stuffy, and all of a sudden he can’t breathe. He tries to swallow it, but he can’t because he’ll choke, and he can’t breathe, and everything hurts, and where’s Mr. Stark? His chest spasms, and his mouth opens and the Gatorade dribbles out of his mouth. He gags and greedily takes in air. “It’s okay, Peter. You’re okay.” 

 

“Where’s Mr. Stark?” he asked, coughing into his hands. His cheeks still burned. He hid his face into Bucky’s chest, loosely hanging on his shirt. “I… I needed to talk to him about this project we’re working on. Where is he?” He fumbled with his hands nervously. “It’s not important, but can you let him know, if he has time, can he come and see me?” 

 

“Peter,” Steve starts gently, sinking into the seat beside him. He reaches up with a towel and starts to pat down his face. Peter furrows his eyebrows in confusion before realizing he had started crying again. 

 

“Also, Sam, can I work with you on Christmas? If I can? Just… if you…” He could feel the tears rolling down his cheek. No wonder why no one wants to hug him. He’s such a baby. 

 

“Of course, Peter,” he said softly. 

 

Peter managed a wobbly smile. “Cool. Thanks,” he said, laugh-crying. “Cool.” 

 

“You ready to try again, son?” Steve asked, holding a fresh, cut-in-half pill. 

 

Peter winced at the sight. “Thirdsies?” he tried. 

 

“It’s like ripping off a bandage,” Bucky said. “Do this, and you’re done.” 

 

“Well, he’ll have to take another dose in four hours,” Bruce says, but Natasha is already dragging him out of the room. Clint clamps a hand down over his mouth and jumps on top of him. 

 

Peter huffs, pours a mouthful in, throws the pill in, plugs his nose, and swallows. “Good job,” Steve praised, ruffling his hair. Peter leaned into the contact. 

 

“This, too,” Doctor Strange ordered, and Peter leaned his head back in defeat. 

 

“Not another one,” he grumbles, pushing his face against Bucky’s shoulder. “I-I can’t.” 

 

“Stark made this one a liquid. It’ll help with the nausea.” 

 

“Mr. Stark made it?” Peter asked, looking up from his shoulder. 

 

“Said you prefer liquids,” he said, holding it out. He poured some into a capful. “Also said it was maple syrup flavor.” 

 

Peter giggled, grabbing the cup. “That’s nasty,” he said, but he swallowed down the capful anyways. After it was done, he stuck his tongue out. Steve was quick to hand him a mugful of tea. Peter gladly accepted it and drank so fast he had to cough. 

 

“Not as nasty as your smell,” Bucky cringed, pinching his nose. Peter frowned and shoved Bucky as hard as he could, which wasn’t very hard in his weakened state. “You need a bath.” 

 

“Baths are gross. You want me to sit in my own filth? No thanks,” Peter said. “I also just  _ took  _ an ice bath. I’m good. No bath.” 

 

“I can smell you over here,” Natasha said from the doorway. “Bath.” 

 

“Fine,” he said, giving in. Bucky grabbed him again, and Peter smacked him in the shoulder. “What do you think you’re doin’? Sergeant Barnes, I said I’d take one!” 

 

Bucky cocked an eyebrow. “You think you can take one all by yourself?” 

 

“I am sixteen!” he screeched. “You said you’d put me down after I took the medicine.” 

 

Bucky sighed, dropping Peter down on the floor. 

 

Peter, victorious, grinned. He crossed his arms over his chest and stuck his tongue out. “Hah! In… your...fa…” He stumbled over, and the closest one, Bruce, caught him. “This doesn’t prove anything.” 

 

Bruce gave a weak smile. “Sorry, Peter.” 

 

“No, no,” Peter said, holding up a finger as Bucky approached. “Nuh-uh. No, ma’am. Not today.” Bucky shrugged and lifted him up. This time, he’s over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.” Bucky showed no sign of easing up. “Oh, come on!” 

 

“It’s either me or the Doctor.” Peter looked over to Doctor Strange, wearing one of the deepest scowls he’s ever seen. “Heh, that’s what I thought.” 

 

Peter covered his face with his hands. “God, why?” Peter reached for his dresser. “For the love of gods, pass me some swim trunks.” 

 

Bucky sets him down on the closed toilet seat. A bath mat has been set down, and all the ice had drained already. “Turn around,” Peter ordered, slipping his pants down. He quickly jumped into his Avengers themed swim shorts and tapped on Bucky’s shoulder. “You know, I could do this by myself.” 

 

“By yourself is what got you into this mess,” he said, sticking his hand into the water. “You really don’t know that by now?” 

 

“I’m sixteen, Sergeant Barnes.” Bucky went to guide him into the tub, but Peter slaps his hand away. He climbs into the water and sinks into the cold. At least it wasn’t as cold as the ice bath. 

 

“Duly noted,” he said, dumping a bucket of water on his head without any warning whatsoever. Peter gasped, moving to hit him, but Bucky’s just laughing. He dumps some shampoo on his head and starts lathering. “You really got some crazy moodswings. I thought you were sixteen?” 

 

“Shut up,” Peter growled. 

 

“You know, it’s okay. You can throw a fit if you want,” Bucky said, scrubbing his scalp. “Really. I mean it. Cry however much you need to. Adults do it too.” 

 

“I know,” he said, but he didn’t really mean it. “I don’t need to.” 

 

“Right, right,” Bucky said, pouring another bucket of water over his head. 

 

“Would you stop?” Peter exclaimed, rubbing at his eyes. 

 

Bucky mumbles an apology, but he’s laughing too much to mean it. Peter pouts and shuts his mouth while Bucky scrubs at his scalp. It’s relaxing, really, and Peter can’t help but close his eyes. 

 

Bucky senses his silence and grins again when he realizes he fell asleep. He carefully washes out the conditioner, but the water on his head is enough to wake him up. “Sorry,” he says, actually meaning it this time. The kid barely gets enough sleep as it is. 

 

“‘S okay,” he says, grabbing the soap. “I have perfectly good hands; thank you.” He starts scrubbing at his legs. “I’m not a baby.” 

 

“No one said you were.” 

 

“You think it, though. I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” Peter said, feeling the wetness in his eyes. He hoped to God it was the bath water. 

 

“You’re not a baby,” Bucky said, and Peter rolled his eyes. He was about to say, “Yeah, right,” but Bucky beat him to it. “You’re just stupid.” 

 

Peter’s eyes popped out of his head. “What?” he hissed, utterly lost. “What’d you just say?” 

 

“Big stupid,” Bucky says, nooging his head. “Dumb dumb.” 

 

Peter giggles and shoves his arms off of his head. “Sergeant Barnes, stop!” 

 

“Big doofus who doesn’t tell anyone he’s sick.” 

 

“Stop!” he cried, hitting his elbow. 

 

“Not until you say you’re sorry.” 

 

“I’m sorry, okay? Just let go,” he said. 

 

“Now say the Winter Soldier is the best Avenger.” 

 

“You’re the best Avenger,” he sighed. 

 

“Now say you’re going to bitch and complain about every little thing,” Bucky said. 

 

Peter rolled his eyes. “Sergeant Barnes.” 

 

“You’re going to be a little bitch, alright? Promise me,” he said, continuing his movements. 

 

“I don’t wanna--” He let out a loud shriek as Bucky tazed him in the side with his flesh finger. “No, no, no! Not again!” 

 

Flashbacks to when he and Sam  _ assaulted  _ him in the training room flashed through Peter’s mind. He went to jump out of the tub, but Bucky pulled him back in. “Say it.” 

 

“Okay, okay, okay,” he said, coughing. “I’ll be a little bitch.” 

 

Bucky stopped his movements and splashed some water on his soapy legs. “Good boy.” He patted his head. Peter spit out his mouthful of water at Bucky. “That’s alright. Let out your teen angst.” 

 

“You suck, Sergeant Barnes,” Peter said, still recovering from the tickle fight. 

  
  


On the otherside of the door, the Avengers (minus Tony and Bucky, stood around Peter’s bedroom. Doctor Strange, bewildered, pinched the bridge of his nose. “What the  _ hell  _ is going on in there?” 

 

Through the soundproofed walls, the only thing they could hear was Peter’s cackling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh where oh where is tony??? am i using tony's distant father issues as a plot device??? maaaaaybeeee (op kills aunt may as a plot device and now this?? man op stoppin LOW) 
> 
> i promise this is an irondad fan fic despite so little tony yet, im SORRY BUT ITS NECCESSARY FOR P L O T
> 
> anyways seriously i wanna thank u guys bc i dont think ive ever gotten so much support on a fic (and i've written so many fics on here, 25 now) so, like, seriously guys i love u so much and thank u for all the INCREDIBLY SWEET comments y'all leave. 
> 
> I want to especially thank @inlovewithreading1 bc they leave comments on like every fic and THEY'RE SO SWEET AND I REALLY REALLY APPRECIATE YOU
> 
> thank u all for reading! (and special thanks to those who sit through my long notes LMAO)


	5. black mambo - glass animals

“What are you still doing in here?” 

 

Tony’s chin is resting on his folded elbows over the desktop. He heard Rhodey enter, but he didn’t bother raising his head. He didn’t bother looking his direction. 

 

Thanos’s entire army could be behind him, and he wouldn’t have been able to tear his eyes away. Not with what he was watching. 

 

Rhodey came up beside him to pull Tony away from the holofeed of Peter’s bedroom. “What are you doing here, Rhodey?” 

 

“I asked first,” Rhodey said, sitting beside him. “I brought you coffee.” Tony snatched the mug out of his hands but didn’t tear his eyes away. “You know, the real thing is right downstairs. He’s been asking for you.” 

 

“I made him cry, Rhodes,” Tony said, running his fingers over the top of his mug. “He could have died tonight, and he would’ve died scared and alone. And, and I did that to him. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m going to fuck up this kid.” 

 

“You’re fucking him up more by not being down there with him,” Rhodey said, watching the boy through the screen. Peter’s currently snoozing in the bathtub while Bucky scrubs him down. “When Pepper told me you were smitten over a kid, I thought she meant you were into some sleazy intern.” 

 

“I’m a committed man,” he said, scoffing. 

 

“Hm, well,” he hummed. “I’ll have to give it to you. He’s an awful cute kid. A troublemaker but cute.” 

 

“You want him?” 

 

Tony looked at him. Rhodey laughed. When Tony’s face didn’t break out into any type of a smile, Rhodey’s eyes widened. “Tones.” Tony didn’t relent. “Anthony, you can’t be serious.” 

 

“I almost killed him, and I made him cry.” He shrugged. “He’s suffering here.” 

 

“No, he’s suffering because you’re up here and not down there with him.”

 

“Not you, then. You know anyone trying to adopt? Or foster?” 

 

“You’re not giving him away.” 

 

“He’s not staying here for me to make him cry and have near death experiences.” 

 

“So, you’re just going to leave him?” 

 

Tony got out of his chair and paced around the lab. Rhodey couldn’t help but raise his voice as Tony walked in circles. “I don’t… I don’t want to.” 

 

“Then don’t.” 

 

“It’s not…” Tony ran his fingers through his hair. “I promised his aunt I’d take care of him, and I almost killed him. I can’t… I can’t forget how he looked during dinner. I’ve never seen him cry like that. I mean, I knew he wasn’t invincible, but the look he gave me? I… I did that to him. I’m just like my dad.” 

 

“Tony,” Rhodey said, grabbing his shoulders roughly, “you are nothing like your father.” Tony rolled his eyes, but Rhodey wasn’t having it. “No, don’t give me any of that shit. That kid adores you, and the longer you spend up here throwing a pity party, the more pain you’re putting him through.” 

 

“I’ll hurt him more if I keep him.” 

 

“Too bad, man. He’s an orphan, and you’re the closest thing he’s got to family.” 

 

“Bucky has him handled.” Rhodey pulled down on Tony’s ear to the point he was yelping. “Ouch, ouch, Rhodey, don’t--” 

 

“Go see your damn kid.” 

  
  
  


As gently as he could, Bucky washed the last of the soap buds off of Peter. He drained the tub, grabbed a Spider-Man towel, and used it to dry him off. Peter mumbled something as he was lifted out of the tub. “‘M tired…” 

 

“Wake up, Petey,” Bucky said, jostling him in his arms. He kicked the bathroom door open and walked into the bedroom where everyone was still waiting. “Unless you want me to change your shorts with everyone in here.” 

 

“I’m awake,” Peter announced, snapping his eyes open. Bucky set him down on the ground, not missing the way Peter stumbled. Thankfully, Steve was there and ready to hold him study. 

 

Sam presented Peter with a fresh set of clothes. Eyeing him suspiciously, Peter grabbed the Avengers themed fluffy pajama bottoms, Captain Marvel boxers, and a faded science tee. Peter rolled his eyes but slid the shirt on. He slipped inside his large closet to change, having to lay down on the floor to get his pants on. 

 

“Why is there so many people in my room?” Peter asked, stepping out of his closet in his pajamas. “No disrespect, but I’m okay now. You can leave.” 

 

“Doctor, how’s he doing?” Steve asked, ignoring Peter. Peter finished tying the drawstrings on his sweatpants, even as he was pushed back on his bed. Doctor Strange took his temperature again and shined a light in his ear. 

 

“Temperature is at 102. Keep him hydrated - lots of water, make sure he eats something with his medicine. He needs rest and a lot of it.” He packed up his bag before walking to the door. He gave Nat a firm handshake on his way. “This makes us even, Tasha.” 

 

“Oh, I have a feeling I’ll be saving your ass real soon,” she said, smiling. “Thank you for helping him.” 

 

“Anytime,” he said. “Except, this better not happen again. Spider-Man, you need to take better care of yourself.” 

 

“Yes, Doc,” he said, sighing. “I will.” 

 

“Keep a close eye on that kid,” he said, zipping up his bag. “And would it kill any of you to give him a hug every once in a while?” 

 

Peter’s face was already on fire from the embarassment of having the Winter Soldier give him a bath, be carried around like a rag doll, being fussed over like a child, oh, and a high fever. He had enough to be red about. 

 

“Doctor…!” Peter exclaimed, fuming. He felt sweat bead at his forehead while the confused Avengers gave him weird looks. 

 

“Peter doesn’t like hugs,” Clint said. “He hates being touched at all, actually.” 

 

Doctor Strange pulled his bag over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “Really?” He half smiled. “You might just be as dumb as I thought.” 

 

“We’re not dumb,” Steve said, offended slightly. 

 

Steve walked up to him, always ready to engage in a fight with anyone that breathes. The Doctor only scoffed at him. “Yeah, the orphan over there had a near death experience from his own reckless behavior, and you think you’re not stupid for not noticing? Really, you live with this child and you haven’t noticed his borderline suicidal tendencies?” 

 

“Not a child,” Peter interrupted, “and I’m not suicidal.” 

 

The others gaped at the two. “He’s going to get himself killed, and it’s on your behalf.” 

 

“You think he’s suicidal?” Steve asked, eyes wide. “Peter?” 

 

“I think,” the Doctor said, throwing the door open, “if you don’t take proper care of him, someone else will.” 

 

Clint scoffed, snickering suddenly. “What, like you?” 

 

He deadpanned. “Yeah, like me.” The Doctor fell through a portal and was gone. 

 

Silence filled the room. Clint leaned over and loudly stage whispered to Natasha, “Did he just threaten to steal Peter?” 

 

“What the hell is happening?” Peter groaned, covering his face. 

 

“You seem stressed, Peter,” Steve cooed, and Peter threw his hands up in defeat. 

 

“He’s tired,” Bucky said. 

 

“He needs rest,” Natasha said, motioning to the door. 

 

“Yes, I do,” Peter agreed, crawling to his spot on the bed. He moved his blanket out of the way and covered himself. “Why is everyone still in my room? I’m sleeping now.” His head fell back on his pillow. 

 

Even with his eyes shut, he could feel the others’s presence in his room. “Okay, guys? Kinda creepy.” He sat up in his bed. “Sweet, but… Creepy.” 

 

“Peter, is it true?” Bruce asked. The little, sweater-wearing doctor himself. How could Peter ever look him in the eye and lie to him? “Are you suicidal?” 

 

“No,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie. “Dr. Banner, I would never do anything to purposely put myself in danger.” 

 

“But… you did, Peter. You  _ did  _ put yourself in danger,” Steve said. “You almost died, and you didn’t tell anyone. You almost did kill yourself.” 

 

“Sound like anyone you know?” Bucky asked, rolling his eyes. 

 

Steve hummed. “Your friend Nancy, maybe? I dunno.” 

 

“Hey, dumbass, he’s talking about you!” Natasha said, cupping her hands. 

 

“What?” Steve hissed. “I don’t do that.” 

 

Sam snorted. “Oh, yeah you do.” 

 

Peter started to shrink under his covers. “And you’re quite possibly the worst of them all!” Bucky exclaimed, pointing his finger. “You’re a disastrous mini Steve.”

 

“Am not,” he said. 

 

“Yeah, and you know what? You’ve been lying to us, haven’t you?” Bucky asked, crossing his arms. “Maybe we are stupid.” Bucky cupped the sides of his face. Peter pushed him away from him. “You had us fooled, Parker.” 

 

“I don’t like hugs!” he said, huffing. “I don’t need to be coddled! I don’t need you to give me a damn bubble bath or bring me tea. I’m sixteen, you know.” 

 

“You nearly died, and you didn’t say anything,” Tony Stark said. “You… You don’t trust us, Peter. You don’t trust us enough to tell us these things.” 

 

Peter stopped, entire body going stiff. He looked up at Tony, who looked almost as bad as he did. He wore giant eye bags, and he just screamed exhausted. “Mr. Stark…” He'd been longing to see him all this time, and now that he was finally here, he was at a loss for words.

 

“That’s on us. We should’ve been there for you.” He moved to join him at his bedside, Bucky moving out of his way for him. “If we were, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.” He grabbed Peter’s hand and gripped it tight. “I made you feel cut off from this family, didn’t I?” He looked the boy up and down. “I did this to you.” 

 

“Mr. Stark, I’m--” 

 

“Don’t you  _ dare  _ say you’re fine!” He snaps, and the room is silent. The both of them are shaking. “You’re not. You’re not, and you haven’t been.” Peter’s shoulders tensed as he tried to fight back those pesky tears. When did he become such a crybaby? “I’m sorry, Peter.” 

 

“Mr. Stark?” he asked, and he started leaning in. Confused, Peter tensed up more as his idol got closer and closer. Eventually, he settled upon wrapping his arms around him. Peter’s limp hands slowly came alive to return the hug. 

 

His hands latched on the back of Tony’s shirt, and the adhesive in his DNA was already working to stick himself to him. A single tear rolled out of his eye from the contact. 

 

“See? I told that Doctor he didn’t like hugs. He’s crying,” Clint complained across the room. 

 

Natasha pushed him out of the room; the door slammed behind them. Tony wrapped his arms tighter around the kid. “Mr. Stark,” he cried, and that was all he was able to say. “Mr. Stark.” 

 

“I’m sorry, kid. I’m here now,” he said, and when did he get teary eyed? “I’m here.” 

 

Peter, caught up in his emotions, started coughing. Tony, concerned, started to pull away. On extinct, Peter started crying harder when he started to leave. He clamped his hands over his mouth and pushed him away from him. “Oh, Peter…” 

 

“No,” he cried, furiosly wiping at the tears. “I’m okay. I’m okay.” He sniffled loudly. “Um, I’d like to be alone.” 

 

“Peter--” 

 

“Please,” he rasped, voice broken. “Leave me alone.” 

 

Tony flinched as if he was striked. “If you need anything, just ask Friday.” He fled the room. 

 

Peter sniffed, watching him go. It tore him apart. “Well?” He looked to the others. 

 

“Peter.” Sam and Steve went to leave, but Bucky stopped. “Don’t be stupid.” 

 

“I’m tired,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie. 

 

Bucky left, and Peter cried himself to sleep. 

 

Tony didn’t sleep. 

 

To be fair, he didn’t sleep most nights. But, tonight especially, he kept himself busy. He ordered everything a sick, sad person might need: soup, blankets, crackers. Anything at all, he ordered it. Anything was better than nothing. 

 

He knew he could buy everything in the world, and it’d never be enough to fix what he did to Peter. 

 

His fear of messing Peter up messed Peter up. How ironic is that? 

 

Him being afraid of hugging him made Peter feel unloved by the person he needed love from the most. 

 

How was Tony supposed to live with that? 

 

For starters, next to buying everything a sad teen would need, he was going to hug him. As much as he could, which won’t be a lot, but anything is better than nothing, right? 

 

“Friday, I need a parenting book,” Tony said, scrolling through a forum. 

 

“Top picks: ‘The Expectant Father,’ ‘The New--’” 

 

“No, uh,” Tony fiddles. “Parenting books for teenagers.” 

 

“Top picks--” 

 

“Friday, purchase and download all.” 

 

“Rightaway, sir.” 

 

Tony is balls deep in parenting books. It’s too late to turn back now. He grits his teeth and wants to die while reading the puberty chapters (which are 75% of the book because that’s all most kids have to worry about, not dead aunts and supervillains). He reads them anyways. 

 

“Am I pregnant?” 

 

Tony whirls around in his chair to see an amused Pepper in the doorway. “Pep,” he greets, smiling. She’s as gorgeous as ever. She’s tired, too. He can tell. She saunters towards him reads over his shoulder. “Oh, just some light reading.” He turns off the holo. 

 

“Did you build another baby in the lab?” Pepper asked, anxiously looking around. 

 

“No,” he said, shivering at the memory, “No, it’s just for Peter.” 

 

“Oh, right, that Stephen Strange fellow sent me a message about that. Is he okay?” 

 

“He almost died,” he said, resting his head on Pepper. She cradled his head. “Because I didn’t realize he was sick.” 

 

“Honey, it’s not your fault.” 

 

“It is,” he said, breathing in her scent. “But that’s what the parenting books are for.” 

 

“Tony, you’re a genius. You don’t need some books to tell you how to raise a kid,” she said, lightly tapping his chin for him to look up at her. “Just tell him you love him.” 

 

“What?” Tony exclaimed, pulling back. Pepper wasn’t amused. “Seriously? You think?” 

 

She nodded. “Was that not in the books?” 

 

Of course. 

 

That’s common sense, isn’t it? To tell your kids you love them? 

 

“My parents never told me they loved me,” Tony said, blinking. “Oh. Oh. You’re so smart, Pep. I love you.” She laughed as Tony kissed her. “You’re the real genius.” 

 

“I know,” she said, smiling wide. “Took you long enough to realize.” 

 

“I’ve always known. That’s why you’re my favorite girlfriend,” he said, clapping his hands together. “You hungry after your 14 hour flight?” 

 

“Sleep, please,” she said, pulling him out of his chair. “Missed you.” She dragged him across the compound to their room, where she kicked off her heels and fell on the bed. Tony threw her some pajamas, and she half-assed changed into the clothes. “Oh, I’m so tired,” she said, turning into Tony, who sat up in the bed next to her. “You haven’t been sleeping either.” 

 

“I’ve been occupied. Sick kid and all.” 

 

“Boss, Memelord69 is in distress,” Friday announced suddenly. 

 

His eyebrows crinkled at the name, but he wasn’t surprised. “I’m so glad I fixed that protocol,” he said. The live feed from his room displayed in front of him, and Tony flinched at the sight of Peter puking into a trashcan at his bedside. “Oh shit.” He climbed out of bed. “I’m sorry, Pep, I’ll be--” 

 

“Go take care of our kid!” she called, promptly falling asleep under the covers. Her word choice went unnoticed by both of them. 

 

Tony raced downstairs to find Bucky camped out a few feet in front of Peter’s room. He sprinted past him and opened the door. “Pete?” he called out. “Oh, kid.” 

 

He migrated from the trashcan into his bathroom. Peter hugged the sides of the toilet as he emptied the contents of his stomach. He crouched down next to him and carefully rubbed circles into his back, and Peter’s shaking slowly subsided. “Mr. Stark, I think I’m dying.” 

 

“Oh, now you say that,” Tony groans. “When you’re  _ not  _ dying? This is what’s wrong with the new generation. You don’t react at the right things, kid.” 

 

“My puke is Shrek color,” Peter mumbles, flushing the toilet. 

 

Tony holds out a hand, and when Peter doesn’t take it and insists on stumbling his way into the wall, Tony grabs his arm and holds it over his head. He guides Peter back to his bed and helps him lay down. “What happened to sleeping?” 

 

“Can’t sleep,” he said. 

 

“You try the melatonin?” Peter pointed to the mugs on the bedside table. “No wonder you threw up. You don’t chug those.” Peter shrugged. 

 

“I thought that if I drank both it’d knock me out.” 

 

“And how’d that work out for you?” he teased. Peter rolled his eyes. “Well, come on then.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“I assumed you wanted to watch movies instead of not-sleeping, but I guess--” 

 

“No, no, no, Mr. Stark,” Peter chanted, latching on to his arm. “I like movies.” Peter jumped out of his bed, stumbling, and ran so fast into the room he didn’t stop until he ran face first into Bucky. “Oh, sorry, Sergeant Barnes.” Bucky grabbed his shoulders to still him. “Hey, wanna watch some movies with us?” 

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?” Bucky asked, glaring at Tony who offered a cheeky wink. 

 

“Can’t,” Peter shrugged. “Movies?” 

 

Bucky bit his lip. “How could I say no?” 

 

Peter jumps on the couch. His shaking hands reach for the remote, and he starts flipping through movies. Tony and Bucky come back from the kitchen, and they sit on both sides of Peter. 

 

There’s a lot of Avengers. Not all full time -- only a select few actually live in the compound. But, still, there’s a lot of Avengers, so their living room has a lot of seats to cater to that many people. 

 

All these seats, and they choose to sit right next to him. Of course, Peter’s not complaining. “What do we wanna watch?” he hums, leaning into the warmth. Bucky throws a blanket over them, and Tony pulls out a large bag. 

 

“I got oyster crackers and Sprite,” he said, handing them to Peter. 

 

“Oh, thank you--” 

 

“And I got a humidifier,” he adds pulling out a Spider-Man humidifier. “Oh, and--” 

 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter giggles. 

 

“I’m not done yet,” he said, fishing through his bag. 

 

“Thank you,” he said, already opening the bag of crackers. He pops one into his mouth. “But Mr. Stark, you really didn’t need to go get all that.” 

 

“I did,” he insisted, and Peter’s too tired to fight this battle. “You pick a movie yet?” 

 

Peter scoops a handful out and holds some to Bucky. “I’m not sure.” 

 

“Memelord69,” Friday speaks, “here are the highest rated movies based off your watch history.” On the screen, a couple kiddie movies popped up. 

 

“Pfft, that’s not mine,” Peter said, sinking into his blanket. 

 

However, Bucky and Tony didn’t flinch. “We can watch that if you want.” 

 

“The MLP movie? Really?” Peter deadpanned. 

 

“Yeah,” Tony said. “I’ll watch it.” 

 

“You’ll have to explain what’s going on, though,” Bucky whispered. “I’m not caught up.” 

 

Peter giggled. “How about  _ Toy Story? _ ” 

 

“Just not the third one,” Tony said, and Peter shivers in agreement. 

 

The movie starts, and Peter can’t help but smile against the shoulder of his mentor. 

 

Not even halfway through the movie, Peter is drooling on Tony’s shoulder. 

 

“Don’t. Move. A. Fucking. Muscle,” Bucky hissed. 

 

Tony glared at Bucky. He had no intent on moving anytime soon. 

 

Peter writhed in his sleep, pushing himself further against Tony. “May,” he seethed in his sleep, and Tony pulled him close. 

 

“I’m here, Peter. I’m here.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *claps hands* this took me a really long time to post my baaaaaaad ((op broke her glasses at wrestling practice and turns out its hard af to write when u cant see soooooooo))
> 
> hope u guys liked!!! im really sad this book is nearly over :((( but i'm already planning a bunch of others for this series soooo lmao ((peter's got a fat storm coming tbh he just can't get a break))


	6. nightmare - halsey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bada bing bada boom

Sam set his freshly baked muffins on top of the counter. The tray didn’t even have the chance to touch the marble without having three muffins stolen. Victorious, Natasha juggled the muffins in her hand and set them down on her plate. The other three were snatched up by Clint. 

 

“Does nobody like blueberry anymore?” Sam asked, lifting up his untouched tray of mixed berry muffins. “Why do we have so much mix for it?” 

 

“Oh, that’s…” Clint trailed off, taking a bite out of his muffin. “Phtahwer.” 

 

“Disgusting,” Bruce cringed, looking away. 

 

“Clint, mouth closed,” Natasha scolded, shutting his jaw. 

 

Clint rolled his eyes, gulped, and picked up his muffin again. “Those are Peter’s.” 

 

Bucky strolled into the kitchen with a damp haired Steve next to him. “Did we miss breakfast?” Steve asked, peering over the available muffins. All blueberry. 

 

“More’s coming,” Sam replied, mixing a bowl. “Someone want to bring Peter some?” 

 

“He may not have the appetite for it yet,” Bruce offered, grabbing a blueberry. 

 

“He was eating a little last night,” Bucky added, also grabbing one so they didn’t go to waste.

 

“How’s he doing?” Sam asked. 

 

None of them had seen Peter since he yelled for them to leave him alone as politely as he could. The last Bucky had seen of him was the movie night where Tony snatched him up and carried him off to Lord knows where. 

 

Clint reached to take the last muffin, but a web shot out and snatched it from him. “What the…?” 

 

Peter stood in the doorway with his webshooters around his wrist. “Hey, everyone,” he greeted, swaying slightly. 

 

“You should be in bed!” Bruce exclaimed, standing up from the table. “Does Tony know you’re--” 

 

“No, and Mr. Stark can not know I’m awake,” Peter groaned, sinking into a seat. He took the tiniest bite of his muffin and took forever to chew it. “I don’t mean to be rude, but he’s driving me up the wall.” 

 

“What?” Natasha asked, already passing a tupperware box for his muffin. 

 

“I’m grateful. I mean, really, it touches me that he’s trying to show he cares,” Peter said, his face dropping, “but he won’t leave me alone for a  _ second.  _ He’s trying to be all… affectionate, and it’s terrifying.” 

 

Clint was the first to laugh. “You broke him, Pete!” 

 

“This is serious, Mr. Barton,” Peter said, face flat against the table. 

 

“Peter,” Natasha said, resting her face against her palm. Peter slowly sat up to look at her. “That’s not what you’re really upset about, is it?” 

 

Peter huffed and took another tiny bite. “Stupid super spies.” 

 

“Damn right.” Clint flinched, waiting for Natasha to elbow him. 

 

“Spit it out, angel bean. What’s eating at you?” 

 

“Well,” he huffed, not bothering to think about the nickname, “I am sixteen.” 

 

A collective groan. “We know.” 

 

“Nobody acts like it, though. I don’t need to be coddled, and Mr. Stark won’t listen to me.” 

 

“Teenagers,” Steve said, shaking his head. Bucky lifted his mug in the air. 

 

“Amen!” Sam agreed. 

 

“I’m not a kid anymore. I can take care of myself.” 

 

“Oh, honey bunch, light of my life,” Natasha said, cupping the sides of his face to turn him into an idiot sandwich, “You had to grow up way too fast. It’s okay for you to want to be coddled.” 

 

Peter’s cheeks reddened. “I just said I didn’t!” 

 

Natasha exhaled heavily. She wasn’t getting through to him. Bruce stepped in for her, “No, you’re not a kid. You’re extremely mature compared to the kid-- teenagers your age. But you being mature doesn’t mean you aren’t entitled to the same as the others.” 

 

A heavy metal hand came down on top of Peter’s head. “You almost died yesterday, Peter,” Bucky said, ruffling his hair. “If you thought we weren’t going to smother you, you’re a special kind of stupid.” 

 

“We’ll tone it down,” Bruce compromised. 

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?” Sam suddenly grabbed one of his cheeks and pulled. “Resting, maybe? Anything other than out of bed?” 

 

“What happened to toning it down?” he said, pulling his hand away. “Besides, I slept. Lots of sleep. I need to patrol.” 

 

“You are  _ not  _ going on patrol,” Steve decided. 

 

“Out of the question!” Bruce said. “Friday, vitals.” 

 

“102,” she announced, and Peter huffed. 

 

“I’m feeling better,” he said. “Really, I am. I can do a patrol.” 

 

“No, you’re going to go back upstairs and go to bed.” 

 

“But--” 

 

“Go.” Steve pointed his finger, and Peter hopped off the stool and escaped to Tony’s room. 

 

“Did you just send him to his room?” 

 

“Yup.” 

 

Tony Stark stirred awake in the insanely large bed he had installed in their “team room.” He yawned, rubbing at his face. He looked to his left to check on Peter and found him gone. 

 

“Friday?” he asked, already out of bed. “Where is he? What happened?” 

 

Peter stumbled in at that exact moment. “I’m right here, Mr. Stark,” he said. 

 

Tony put a hand to his forehead. “Pete, you’re still burning up. You need to lie down, and you need to take more medication.” 

 

“Just did at breakfast,” Peter lied. “I’m okay. I slept enough.” 

 

Tony bit his lip. On one hand, he really wanted to force Peter back to bed, but he knows all too well how he rarely sleeps when Pepper locks him in his room. He can’t bring himself to do it. 

 

“Oh, alright.” He gives in. “But you’re taking it easy.” 

 

“Mr. Staaaaaark,” he whined, but he wasn’t having it. 

 

“Stop whining, and I’ll get you some jello,” he said, walking through the door into the communal room. Peter dragged his feet behind him. “Go sit on the couch.” 

 

“Hey, what’re you doing out of your room?” Steve barked, and Peter fell back on the couch out of defeat. 

 

He covered his face. “I can’t win, can I?” he exclaimed. 

 

“No,” Bucky said, moving to cover him with a blanket. 

 

“Are those muffins?” Tony asked. 

 

Sam met his gaze. “No.” 

 

Tony quickly grabbed one, despite Sam’s glaring. “Thanks, Sammy,” he said, taking a bite. “Oh, hey, you cook, right? Can you make jello?” 

 

“That’s baking,” he corrected. 

 

Tony furrowed his eyebrows and shrugged. “What did I say?” 

 

“One step ahead of you,” Bucky yelled from the couch. “Check the fridge.” 

 

He raised an eyebrow, but he opened the fridge to find a bowl of red jello. He scooped some into a bowl and brought it to Peter, who had just managed to sit up. “Thanks,” he said, accepting the bowl. Tony slid into the seat beside him. The others swarmed him. Peter started up the Nintendo Switch (he always loved playing with the game consoles here because he never had too many as a child). He held out the spare controller to Tony. “Will you play with me?” 

 

Clint scoffed. “What, tired of losing to me?” 

 

Peter stuck his tongue out. “You don’t play fair.” With that, he handed the others off to Bucky and Bruce, whose first instinct was to pass it back. 

 

“Oh, I can’t.” He handed it back to Peter, who stared back at him with big eyes. He bit his lip. “Oh, okay, fine.” 

 

Peter grinned. He started up a game of Mario Kart, which he won easily. Bruce came in last place, even with Natasha struggling to help him. Clint tried his best to help too, but Natasha kicked him off the couch after he tried to snatch the controller out of Bruce’s hand. 

 

As the next round was getting ready to start, Peter scooped up a spoonful of jello. He went to bite it, but he accidently inhaled the damn thing. He started choking, but thankfully it went down. He coughed weakly into his fist, and the coughing fit sent him reeling. 

 

Tony was there to work him through it. He pressed a firm hand against his back. Steve held a bucket in front of him. 

 

He slowly sat back up and gave a feeble thumbs up. He exchanged the jello for the bucket and continued playing. 

 

“‘I can patrol,’” Bucky mocked. 

 

“Shut up,” Peter said, rolling his eyes. “I’m focusing.” 

 

They rotated controllers. Bruce passed it off to Natasha, and Clint tried to pry a controller from Bucky and Tony. No luck. 

 

Natasha had just passed Peter by using a blue shell. Peter gasped loudly. 

 

“Get her, Pete!” Clint cheered, gripping his shoulders from where he was perched on top of the couch. “No mercy.” 

 

A sudden retching caused Tony to pry his eyes off of the screen. Peter, intent on winning, locked his eyes on the screen while he puked into the bucket. 

 

Tony shivered and motioned for Steve to get a napkin. Tony went to wipe it off his chin, and Peter moved away. 

 

He crossed the finish line and grabbed the napkin. He handed his controller to Steve. 

 

“Oh, that’s okay,” Steve said, disturbed by Peter’s sudden puking into a bucket without a care in the world. “You play.” 

 

“It’s making me kind of dizzy,” Peter said. 

 

“We can play something else,” Tony offered. “We can do anything you want.”

 

Peter switched over to his Playstation and scrolled through his games. The brightness was too much, though, and he ended up reaching for Tony’s sunglasses on the table. He slipped them on, rested his head against his shoulder, and clicked on Minecraft. 

 

Bucky and Steve shared one controller, Tony, and Bucky took the others. Thanks to the big screen, going split wasn’t too bad. 

 

However, Peter’s head was still spinning as he cut down trees in game. “Want some ibuprofen?” 

 

Peter shrugged. “No thanks.” 

 

Tony skeptically looked him up and down. Peter coughed again and rubbed his stuffy nose. 

 

“You… You little shit,” Tony seethed. “Stop hacking my AI!” He tilted his head back. “Friday, when’s the last time Dipshit took his medicine?” 

 

“Yesterday at 8:49, Boss.” 

 

Tony crossed his arms over his chest. “Pete, if you want to get better, you gotta take your medicine.” He uncapped the liquid bottle. Bucky was already cutting the pill in half. 

 

“I hate it,” he groaned. “I really hate it, you know?” 

 

“I know,” Tony said, and Peter downed the cup. He snatched the half pill from Bucky, poured Gatorade in his mouth, and swallowed it. 

 

After he finished taking his medicine, Peter’s nose started running like it was supposed to. He sniffled every few seconds and resisted the urge to wipe his runny nose on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. 

 

“It hurts, Mr. Stark,” Peter whined, hiding his face in his shoulder. 

 

“How about we get you some soup, huh?” Tony asked, but Peter shook his head frantically. He frowned. 

 

Steve got up from his spot and returned moments later with a bowl of soup. “Just a couple bites.” 

 

“I can’t,” he said, shaking his head. “Cap,  _ please. _ ” 

 

“Peter, I know you feel sick, but just try for me?” 

 

Tony scooped up a spoonful and held it to Peter, who snatched the spoon from him. “I can feed myself,” he murmured, biting the spoon. He slurped the Spiderman chicken noodle soup slowly. 

 

“Good job,” Tony praised, and Peter blushed. 

 

“Whatever,” he said, setting the spoon down in the bowl. He ate a couple of bites and then some more, and as much as he hated wasting food, he couldn’t eat anymore. “I wanna build a bigger house.” He picked back up the controller and started to play. 

 

They spent a couple hours like this. Peter was just happy he didn’t have school to go to. Thank God for Summer Break. The others, however, seemingly had nothing better to do than play video games with a sick kid. 

 

“What the  _ hell _ ?” Steve exclaimed suddenly, dropping his controller. “What is that? Peter?” 

 

“Huh?” Peter asked, looking at his side of the television. “Cap, that’s an Enderman.” 

 

“Well, I don’t like it. Can I shoot it?” 

 

Peter giggled, “It’s not that type of game.” 

 

“I’ll kill it,” Clint offered, reaching for the controller. Steve pushed him away and raised his controller where Clint wouldn’t be able to reach it. 

 

“Mr. Barton, you can have my controller if you want to play,” Peter offered suddenly, and Clint stopped struggling to grab the controller. He looked at Peter, sniffled, and engulfed him in a hug. “Oh, get off me!” 

 

”Oh, sweetheart, I love you,” he said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Peter stiffened, throwing him off of the couch with his superhuman strength. 

 

“Take your damn controller,” Peter said, wiping at his cheek. 

 

“No, sweet angel baby, you play,” he said, and Peter gagged. 

 

“What’s wrong with him?” He asked, turning to Tony for help, but he was also looking at him weird. “What the heck?” 

 

“You’re a sweet kid, Pete,” Tony said, wrapping an arm around him. And if Peter smiled at that, that’s his business. 

  
  
  


Peter spent the next two days like this. With all the coddling the others did, it didn’t take long for Peter to get better. 

 

Before no time, he’s racing around the compound as usual. 

 

“I’m going out for a run!” he announces, slipping on his shoes. 

 

“Memelord69, Boss recommends a jacket,” Friday says. 

 

Peter looks up at the ceiling and flicks Tony off. Even so, he slips on a hoodie over his tee shirt. 

 

Grinning, he steps out the door into the rainy streets. He wasn’t planning on getting sick again anytime soon. 

 

If he did get sick, though, he knew things would be okay. He knew now that he won’t be alone. 

 

Of course, now he’s gotta put up with hugs and appreciative touches and the countless coddling, but honestly? Peter wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aw im sad this is over :((( 
> 
> if u guys enjoyed, tune into this series bc I got aloooooooooot planned~! Thank u bunches for all ur support <3 ily

**Author's Note:**

> i love this series so much,,,,,,,,,, hope u guys enjoy it as much as i dooooooo
> 
> if u enjoyed, leave a kudos or a comment, or also you could send me hatemail on my ig (@softdadironman) if you WANT to,,,,, pls 
> 
> um ok thats all bye guys ily


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